[3300]'Sir, I am grieved,' quoth she, 'you are allied
To him whose quiver crowns a lover's wish.
Else at a twelve-score distance might y' have spied
You cast your net to mesh a simple fish.
Your worth and feature does entitle you
To Cytherea with her silver hue.
When I, alas! am but an homely maid,
Born to a spindle and to serve a plough.
To milk my spongy-teated cows I strayed,
Which here amongst these tender hazels low.