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LOe where she
comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe from her
chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty
race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.
So well it her beseemes that ye would weene
Some
angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks
lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling
flowres a tweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her
attyre,
And being crowned with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene,
Her modest eyes
abashed to behold
So many gazers, as on her do
stare,
Vpon the lowly ground affixed are.
Ne
dare lift vp her countenance too bold,
But blush to
heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being
proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
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