The kindly buds, and blosomes of brave tree,
With white and red and deckt my cheekes so fine,
There stoode two balles, like drops of claret wine.
13.*
The beaten snow, nor lily in the field,
No whiter sure then naked necke and hand:
My lookes had force to make a lyon yeld,
And at my forme in gase a world would stand:
My body small, fram’d finely to be span’d,
As though dame Kind had sworne, in solemne sort,