Rosaline

  Like to the clear in highest sphere
  Where 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 cloud
  That beautifies Aurora's face,
  Or like the silver crimson shroud
  That 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 tower
  Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
  To watch for glances every hour
  From 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 fires
  And at her eyes his brand doth light:
  Heigh ho, would she were mine.
  Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
  The 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!