ROSADER
I pray thee Rosalynde by those sweete eyes That staine the Sunne in shine, the morne in
cleare;
By those sweete cheekes where Loue incamped
lies To kisse the roses of the springing yeare.
I tempt thee Rosalynde by ruthfull plaints, Not seasoned with deceipt of fraudfull guile,
But firme in paine, farre more than tongue
depaints,
Sweete Nymph be kinde, and grace me with a
smile. So may the heavens preserve from hurtfull food Thy harmelesse flockes, so may the Summer
yield
The pride of all her riches and her good, To fat thy sheepe (the Citizens of field).
Oh leave to arme thy lovely browes with scorne: The birds their beake, the Lion hath his taile, And Lovers nought but sighes and bitter mourne, The spotlesse fort of fancie to assaile.
Oh Rosalynde then be thou pitifull: For Rosalynde is only beautifull.