I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.
She may be well compared
Unto the Phoenix kind,
Whose like was never seen nor heard,
That any man can find.
In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope;
In word and eke in deed steadfast.
What will you more we say?
If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.
Her roseal color comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
More ruddier, too, than doth the rose
Within her lively face.
At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,
Nor at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as a stray.
The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mixed with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.
O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck her in such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.
Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,
As doth the gillyflower a weed;
And more a thousand ways.
How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.