• See the chariot at hand here of Love,
    Wherein my lady rideth!
    Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
    And well the car Love guideth.
    As she goes, all hearts do duty
    Unto her beauty;
    And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
    But enjoy such a sight,
    That they still were to run by her side,
    Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

    Do but look on her eyes, they do light
    All that Love's world compriseth!
    Do but look on her hair, it is bright
    As Love's star when it riseth!
    Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
    Than words that soothe her;
    And from her arched brows, such a grace
    Sheds itself through the face
    As alone there triumphs to the life
    All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

    Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
    Before rude hands have touch'd it?
    Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow
    Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
    Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver?
    Or swan's down ever?
    Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
    Or the nard in the fire?
    Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
    Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!