di Thomas Lodge (1558-1625)

Phoebe sat
Sweet she sat,
Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her,
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me?
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,
Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh my love
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice;
Touch and voice what may distain you?
As she sung,
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Oh mine eyes
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks
White as wool,
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter.
Phoebe's eyes,
Dove-like mild,
Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel.
Montan swears,
In your lamps
He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or I die;
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?