At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. White his shroud as the mountain snow, Larded with sweet flowers ; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. AS this fair face the cause, quoth she WAS Why the Grecians sackéd Troy? Fond done, done fond, Was this King Priam's joy? With that she sighed as she stood, H ANG there, my verse, in witness of my love: And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive She. WEET Mistress,—what your name is else, I SWE know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine, Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not Than our earth's wonder, more than earth, divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field? Are you a god? would you create me new? Transform me then, and to your power I'll yield! |