[Footnote 1:  precious.]

“Why, forester,” quoth Ganymede, “comfort thyself; be blithe and frolic man.  Love souseth[1] as low as she soareth high:  Cupid shoots at a rag as soon as at a robe; and Venus’ eye that was so curious, sparkled favor on pole-footed[2] Vulcan.  Fear not, man, women’s looks are not tied to dignity’s feathers, nor make they curious esteem where the stone is found, but what is the virtue.  Fear not, forester; faint heart never won fair lady.  But where lives Rosalynde now? at the court?”

[Footnote 1:  swoops, a term used in falconry.]

[Footnote 2:  club-footed.]

“Oh no,” quoth Rosader, “she lives I know not where, and that is my sorrow; banished by Torismond, and that is my hell:  for might I but find her sacred personage, and plead before the bar of her pity the plaint of my passions, hope tells me she would grace me with some favor, and that would suffice as a recompense of all my former miseries.”

“Much have I heard of thy mistress’ excellence, and I know, forester, thou canst describe her at the full, as one that hast surveyed all her parts with a curious eye; then do me that favor, to tell me what her perfections be.”

“That I will,” quoth Rosader, “for I glory to make all ears wonder at my mistress’ excellence.”

And with that he pulled a paper forth his bosom, wherein he read this: 

Rosalynde’s Description

Like to the clear[1] in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines: 
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde! 
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink: 
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think: 
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora’s face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus’ smiling looks doth grace: 

          Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.

Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity: 

          Heigh ho, would she were mine.

Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes: 
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde. 
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same: 
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view: 
Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde. 
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light: 
Heigh ho, would she were mine.