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Rosalind - Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere by Thomas Lodge
Rosalinds Madrigal by Thomas Lodge
Rosalind's Madrigal by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 1 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 10 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 11 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 12 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 13 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 14 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 17 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 18 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 19 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 2 by Thomas Lodge
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Sonnet 22 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 23 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 24 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 25 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 26 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 27 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 28 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 29 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 3 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 30 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 31 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 32 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 33 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 34 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 35 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 36 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 37 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 38 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 39 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 4 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 40 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 5 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 6 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 7 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 8 by Thomas Lodge
Sonnet 9 by Thomas Lodge
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Rosalind - Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere by Thomas Lodge
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine! | 
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