Nor the wind day and night could her astound,
Nor the nettles and chickweed that grew on the ground.
She was of the house of De Willoughby,
And her story was long and melancholie;
But her beauty never could rivalled be.
Glittered her tresses like beams of sun,
And snake-like over her neck did run.
Her cheek, where dimples made beauteous breach,
Lovelily smiled, and the down on each
Was soft as fur of unfingered peach.