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Thomas Lodge biography :

Coming soon

   
   
 

Poems by Thomas Lodge :

Rosalind - Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere

Rosalind's Madrigal

Sonnet 1

Sonnet 10

Sonnet 11

Sonnet 12

Sonnet 13

Sonnet 14

Sonnet 17

Sonnet 18

Sonnet 19

Sonnet 2

Sonnet 20

Sonnet 21

Sonnet 22

Sonnet 23

Sonnet 24

Sonnet 25

Sonnet 26

Sonnet 27

Sonnet 28

Sonnet 29

Sonnet 3

Sonnet 30

Sonnet 31

Sonnet 32

Sonnet 33

Sonnet 34

Sonnet 35

Sonnet 36

Sonnet 37

Sonnet 38

Sonnet 39

Sonnet 4

Sonnet 40

Sonnet 5

Sonnet 6

Sonnet 7

Sonnet 8

Sonnet 9


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Recommended Poetry Books :

 
 

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

Sonnet 20 by Thomas Lodge

Sonnet 21 by Thomas Lodge

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

 

More Poems

 

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!