Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Thomas Lodge. 1556?1625100. 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 Rosaline! | 5 |
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, | |
Resembling heaven by every wink; | |
The gods do fear whenas they glow, | |
And I do tremble when I think | |
Heigh ho, would she were mine! | 10 |
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud | |
That beautifies Aurora’s face, | |
Or like the silver crimson shroud | |
That Phoebus’ smiling looks doth grace. | |
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! | 15 |
Her lips are like two budded roses | |
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, | |
Within whose bounds she balm encloses | |
Apt to entice a deity: | |
Heigh ho, would she were mine! | 20 |
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 Rosaline! | 25 |
Her paps are centres of delight, | |
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, | |
Where Nature moulds the dew of light | |
To feed perfection with the same: | |
Heigh ho, would she were mine! | 30 |
With orient pearl, with ruby red, | |
With marble white, with sapphire blue, | |
Her body every way is fed, | |
Yet soft to touch and sweet in view: | |
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! | 35 |
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! | 40 |
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan | |
The absence of fair Rosaline, | |
Since for a fair there ‘s fairer none, | |
Nor for her virtues so divine: | |
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! | 45 |
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! |