IIII
[Who doth behold my mistres face]
[1]
Who doth behold my mistres face
And seeth not good hap hath he
Who hears her speake & marks her grace
Shal think none euer spake but she
In short for to resound her praise
She is the fayrest the fayrest of her dayes.
2
VVho knowes her wit and not admires:
shal show himselfe deuoide of skil,
Her vertues kindle strange desires,
In those that thinke vpon her stil.
In short &c.
3
Her red is like vnto the rose,
VVhen from a bud vnto the sunne,
Her tender leaues she doth disclose,
The first degree of ripenes wonne,
In short, &c.
4
And with her red mixt is a white,
Like to that same of faire moone shine,
That doth vpon the water light,
And makes the colour seeme deuine.
In short &c.
