Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hair,Whether unfolded or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Refining heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I think: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.Her lips are like two budded roses,Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm encloses,Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.Her paps are centres of delight,Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of light,To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blue,Her body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.Nature herself her shape admires,The gods are wounded in her sight,And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosalind,Since for her fair there is fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind. Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
