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Like to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same color is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigho, fair Rosalind!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear when as they glow,
And I tremble when I think:
Heigho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora’s face,
Or like the silver, crimson shroud
That Phoebe’s smiling looks doth grace:
Heigho, fair Rosalind!

Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm incloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigho, fair Rosalind!

Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed Perfection with the same:
Heigho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigho, fair Rosalind!