THOMAS LODGE
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!
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! 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: 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 I
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!
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