Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

MY bonny lass, thine eye,

So sly,

Hath made me sorrow so;

Thy crimson cheeks, my dear,

So clear,

Have so much wrought my woe;

Thy pleasing smiles and grace,

Thy face,

Have ravished so my sprites,

That life is grown to nought

Through thought

Of love, which me affrights.

For fancy’s flames of fire

Aspire

Unto such furious power

As, but the tears I shed

Make dead

The brands would me devour,

I should consume to nought

Through thought

Of thy fair shining eye,

Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,

The wiles

That forced my heart to die;

Thy grace, thy face, the part

Where art

Stands gazing still to see

The wondrous gifts and power,

Each hour,

That hath bewitchèd me.