| LIKE to the clear in highest sphere | |
| Where all imperial glory shines, | |
| Of selfsame colour is her hair | |
| Whether unfolded or in twines: | |
| Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! | 5 |
| Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, | |
| Resembling heaven by every wink; | |
| The gods do fear whenas they glow, | |
| And I do tremble when I think | |
| Heigh ho, would she were mine! | 10 |
| |
| 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 Rosaline! | 15 |
| Her lips are like two budded roses | |
| Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, | |
| Within whose bounds she balm encloses | |
| Apt to entice a deity: | |
| Heigh ho, would she were mine! | 20 |
| |
| 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! | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| |
| 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! | 35 |
| 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! | 40 |
| |
| 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! | 45 |
| Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! | |
