For with her snow and rose the beams
And lustre of her eyes are flown,
And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,
Sad, wrinkled and alone.
’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,
The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,
Who listens to her lover sue,
And tenderly responds;
Who at his pleasantries will smile,
Who dances with him at the feast,