John Lyly (1555?–1606)

MY Daphne’s hair is twisted gold,

Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,

My Daphne’s brow enthrones the graces,

My Daphne’s beauty stains all faces;

On Daphne’s cheek grow rose and cherry,

On Daphne’s lip a sweeter berry;

Daphne’s snowy hand but touched does melt,

And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;

My Daphne’s voice tunes all the spheres,

My Daphne’s music charms all ears;

Fond am I thus to sing her praise,

These glories now are turned to bays.