Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient theme
Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme,
And through ye blessed hours of slepe--thilk eyen or browne or blue
Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe!

O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee,
And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee,
Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall,
I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all.



To a Lady

Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed
Warmer than chill appreciation--
If they should lengthen to an "Ode
On Fascination--"

If I should cast this cold restraint,
Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing--
If but your portrait I should paint
In colours glowing--

Assuming I should write such dope--
If, haply, you can but conceive it--
As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope--
You'd not believe it.