| I thought of your beauty, and this arrow, |
| Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow. |
| There’s no man may look upon her, no man, |
| As when newly grown to be a woman, |
| Tall and noble but with face and bosom |
| Delicate in colour as apple blossom. |
| This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason |
| I could weep that the old is out of season. |