Whenas her lute is tunéd to her voice, 
The air grows proud for honour of that sound, 
And rocks do leap to show how they rejoice 
That in the earth such music should be found. 
Whenas her hair more worth, more pale than gold, 
Like silver thread lies waiting in the air, 
Diana-like she looks, but yet more bold; 
Cruel in chase, more chaste and yet more fair. 
Whenas she smiles, the clouds for envy breaks; 
She Jove in pride encounters with a check; 
The sun doth shine for joy whenas she speaks; 
Thus heaven and earth do homage at her beck. 
Yet all these graces, blots, not graces are, 
If you, my love, of love do take no care.