ROSADER
I pray thee Nymph by all the working words, By all the teares and sighes that Lovers know, Or what or thoughts or faltring tongue affords, I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.
Sweete Rosalynd my love (would God my love) My life (would God my life) ay pitie me;
Thy lips are kinde, and humble like the dove, And but with beautie pitie will not be.
Looke on mine eyes made red with rueful teares,
From whence the raine of true remorse
descendeth, All pale in lookes, and I though young in yeares,
And nought but love or death my daies
befrendeth.
Oh let no stormie rigour knit thy browes, Which Loue appointed for his mercie seate: The tallest tree by Boreas’ breath it bowes,2 The iron yields with hammer, and to heate.
O Rosalynde then be thou pitifull, For Rosalynde is only beautifull.
2 Boreas is the Greek god of the north wind.