Hath of a sudden any god made me another man?
For well I wot, before a comely grace in me did shine,
Like ivy round about a tree, and decked this beard of mine.
My crispèd locks, like parsley, on my temples wont to spread;
And on my eyebrows black a milk white forehead glisterèd:
More seemly were mine eyes than are Minerva's eyes, I know.
My mouth for sweetness passèd cheese; and from my mouth did flow
A voice more sweet than honeycombs. Sweet is my Roundelay
When on the whistle, flute, or pipe, or cornet I do play.
And all the women on our hills do say that I am fair,