Robert Greene (1558–1592)

FAIR is my love for April’s in her face:

Her lovely breasts September claims his part,

And lordly July in her eyes takes place,

But cold December dwelleth in her heart;

Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire,

Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.

Like Phœbus’ fire, so sparkle both her eyes,

As air perfumed with amber is her breath,

Like swelling waves, her lovely breasts do rise,

As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death:

Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live,

When unkind earth, death and despair doth give!

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face,

Love twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint,

Her eyes shine favour, courtesy, and grace,

But touch her heart, ah that is framed of flint!

Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain;

The rock will wear, washed with a winter’s rain.