[Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth]
1
Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth,
All pfum'd and crown'd with Roses,
To thy chamber thee pursu'th,
And thy wanton Arme incloses?
2
What is he thou now hast got,
Whose more long & golden Tresses
Into many a curious knott
Thy more curious fingers dresses?
3
How much will he wayle his trust,
And (forsooke) begin to wonder,
When black wyndos shall billowes thrust,
And breake all his hopes in sunder?
4
Ficklenes of wyndes he knows
Very little that doth loue thee;
Miserable are all those,
That affect thee ere they proue thee.
5
I as one from shipwrack freed
To the Oceans mighty Ranger,
Consecrate my dropping weed,
And in freedome thinke of danger.