Glad her face and fair her grace
    Underneath the sun’s embrace! 
    Venus stirs the lover’s brain,
    With life’s nectar fills his vein,
    Pouring through his limbs the heat
    Which makes pulse and passion beat.

    O how happy was the birth
    When the loveliest soul on earth
    Took the form and life of thee,
    Shaped in all felicity! 
    O how yellow is thy hair! 
    There is nothing wrong, I swear,
    In the whole of thee; thou art
    Framed to fill a loving heart! 
    Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned,
    And the eyebrows dark and round,
    Curved like Iris at the tips,
    Down the dark heavens when she slips!

    Red as rose and white as snow
    Are thy cheeks that pale and glow;
    ’Mid a thousand maidens thou
    Hast no paragon, I vow. 
    Round thy lips and red as be
    Apples on the apple-tree;
    Bright thy teeth as any star;
    Soft and low thy speeches are;
    Long thy hand, and long thy side,
    And the throat thy breasts divide;
    All thy form beyond compare
    Was of God’s own art the care.

    Sparks of passion sent from thee
    Set on fire the heart of me;
    Thee beyond all whom I know
    I must love for ever so. 
    Lo, my heart to dust will burn
    Unless thou this flame return;
    Still the fire will last, and I,
    Living now, at length shall die! 
    Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray,
    Let us twain together play,
    Joining lip to lip and breast
    Unto, breast in perfect rest!

The lover is occasionally bashful, sighing at a distance.

MODEST LOVE.

No. 15.

    Summer sweet is coming in;
    Now the pleasant days begin;
    Phoebus rules the earth at last;
    For sad winter’s reign is past.

    Wounded with the love alone
    Of one girl, I make my moan: 
    Grief pursues me till she bend
    Unto me and condescend.

    Take thou pity on my plight! 
    With my heart thy heart unite! 
    In my love thy own love blending,
    Finding thus of life the ending!

Occasionally his passion assumes a romantic tone, as is the case with the following Serenade to a girl called Flos-de-spina in the Latin.  Whether that was her real name, or was only used for poetical purposes, does not admit of debate now.  Anyhow, Flos-de-spina, Fior-di-spina, Fleur-d’epine, and English Flower-o’-the-thorn are all of them pretty names for a girl.

THE SERENADE TO FLOWER-O’-THE-THORN.

No. 16.

    The blithe young year is upward steering. 
    Wild winter dwindles, disappearing;
    The short, short days are growing longer,
    Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger. 
        Since January dawned, my mind
        Waves hither, thither, love-inclined
        For one whose will can loose or bind.