More tender than a lamb, more white than cheese when it is new,
More wanton than a calf, more sharp than grapes unripe, I find.
You use to come when pleasant sleep, my senses all do bind:
But you are gone again when pleasant sleep doth leave mine eye;
And as a sheep you run, that on the plain a wolf doth spy.
"I then began to love thee, Galate, when first of all
You, with my mother, came to gather leaves of crowtoe [hyacinth] small
Upon our hill; when I, as Usher, squired you all the way.
Nor when I saw thee first, nor afterwards, nor at this day,
Since then could I refrain: but you, by Jove! nought set thereby!