By THOMAS LODGE, M.D.

[Footnote: The original of this poem not being within my reach at present, I have inserted Professor Arber's modern version.]

My bonny lass! thine eye,
So sly,
Hath made me sorrow so.
Thy crimson cheeks, my dear!
So clear,
Have so much wrought my woe.

Thy pleasing smiles and grace,
Thy face,
Have ravished so my sprites,
That life is grown to nought
Through thought
Of love, which me affrights.

For fancy's flames of fire
Aspire
Unto such furious power,
As but the tears I shed
Make dead,
The brands would me devour.

I should consume to nought
Through thought
Of thy fair shining eye,
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,
The wiles
That forced my heart to die,

Thy grace, thy face, the part
Where art
Stands gazing still to see
The wondrous gifts and power,
Each hour,
That hath bewitched me.