Her neck like to a stately tower
    Where Love himself imprison’d lies,
To watch for glances every hour
    From her divine and sacred eyes:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her paps are centres of delight,
    Her breasts 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 to touch and sweet in view:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

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!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
    The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there’s fairer none,
    Nor for her virtues so divine:
    Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!