Rosalynd

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere

Where all imperial glory shines:

Of selfsame color is her hair,

Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd!

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 Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd!

Her lips are like two budded roses

Whom ranks of lilies neighbor 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 emprisoned lies

To watch for glances every hour

From her divine and sacred eyes:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd!

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!

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 Rosalynd!

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 Rosalynd,

Since for a fair there ’s fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd!

Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!