Page:Handful of Pleasant Delights.djvu/62

Rh Who vseth still the truth to tel, May blamed be though he saie wel: Say Crowe is white, and snowe is blacke, Lay not the fault on womans backe, Thousands were good, But few scapte drowning in Noes flood: Most are wel bent, I must say so, least I be shent.

Y fancie did I fixe, in faithful forme and frame: in hope ther shuld no blustring blast haue power to moue the same.

And as the Gods do know, and world can witnesse beare: I neuer serued other Saint, nor Idoll other where.

But one, and that was she, whom I in heart did shrine: And make account that pretious pearle, and iewel rich was mine.

No toile, nor labour great, could wearie me herein: For stil I had a Iasons heart, the golden fleece to win.

And sure my sute was hearde, I spent no time in vaine: A grant of friendship at her hand, I got to quite my paine.