Her golden hair o'erspred her face,
Her careless armes abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillows place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
(Cupid's Pastime, auteur inconnu vers 1621.)
Though mountains meet not, lovers may.
What other lovers do, did they.
The God of Love sat on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.
(Id.)
[312]: Rosalind's madrigal.
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet.
Now with his wings he plays with me
Now with his feet.
Within my eyes he makes his rest,
His bed amid my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast.
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah! wanton, will ye!
[313]: Greene (From Menaphon).
Her eyes, fair eyes, like to the purest lights
That animate the sun or cheer the day,
In whom the shining sun-beams brightly play,
Whiles fancy doth on them divine delight.