At feathers catch to fly where she is gone.
The branchèd beech, the oak, and tow'ring ash,
Bend both their brows and boughs my face to lash.
The angry thorns my hands, though armèd, scratch,
And testy brambles at my vestures catch
(Which was before the curse of human sin,
1460But now, by her, outsmelled the eglantine),
I, wonder-strucken, asked a holy thistle,
Which with his sharp'ned pikes began to bristle,
(But know at first 'twas but an homely weed,