 | Poems and Translations |  |
13
RUSTIC.
Her cheeks—they are twin blush roses;
Her breath is the new-mown hay;
Right daintily curved her nose is,
Ivory carved, you'd say.
O rare!
Such is my Fair:
Why doth she say me nay?
Her breath is the new-mown hay;
Right daintily curved her nose is,
Ivory carved, you'd say.
O rare!
Such is my Fair:
Why doth she say me nay?
Her hair like silk o' the maize is,
The Wind hath a golden prize;
The Sun in his high noon blazes
Can not outshine her eyes.
Compare
Aught with my Fair!
Why doth she me despise?
The Wind hath a golden prize;
The Sun in his high noon blazes
Can not outshine her eyes.
Compare
Aught with my Fair!
Why doth she me despise?
O Venus! but make her willing,
Cupid! thy wit employ:
Were surely no prettier billing
Though Adon had not been coy.
O rare!
Ah me, my Fair!
When wilt thou be my Joy?
Cupid! thy wit employ:
Were surely no prettier billing
Though Adon had not been coy.
O rare!
Ah me, my Fair!
When wilt thou be my Joy?
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