Pilgrim. Quite dark.
Shepherd. Then ’twas not she.
Pilgrim. The peaches side
That next the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a somber twist.
Shepherd. No that is not the maid I seek;
Her hair lies gold against her cheek,