Louise Imogen Guiney
A Seventeenth-Century Song
She alone of Shepherdesses
With her blue disdayning eyes,
Wo'd not hark a Kyng that dresses
All his lute in sighes:
Yet to winne
I elect for mine Emprise.
None is like her, none above her,
Who so lifts my youth in me,
That a littel more to love her
Were to leave her free!
But to winne
Is mine utmost love's degree.
Distaunce, cold, delay, and danger,
Build the four walles of her bower;
She's noe Sweete for any stranger,
She's noe valley flower:
And to winne
To her height my heart can Tower!
Uppe to Beautie's promontory
I will climb, not loudlie call
Perfect and escaping glory
Folly, if I fall:
Well to winne
To be worth her is my all.
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