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O how her fear did make her colour rise!

First red as roses that on lawn we lay,

Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

‘And how her hand, in my hand being locked,

Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear,

Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked

Until her husband’s welfare she did hear,

Whereat she smilèd with so sweet a cheer

That had Narcissus seen her as she stood

Self-love had never drowned him in the flood.

‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?

All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.

Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth;

Affection is my captain, and he leadeth,

And when his gaudy banner is dismayed,

The coward fights, and will not be dismayed.

‘Then childish fear avaunt, debating die,

Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age!

My heart shall never countermand mine eye,

Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage.

My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.

Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize.

Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’

As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

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