As Ye Came from the Holy Land

As ye came from the holy land
Of blessed Walsingham,
O met you not with my true love
As by the way ye came?

"How should I know your true love,
That have met many a one,
As I came from the holy land,
That have both come and gone?"

My love is neither white, nor browne,
But as the heavens faire;
There is none hath her form divine,
Either in earth, or ayre.

"Such an one did I meet, good sir,
With an angelicke face;
Who like a nymphe, a queene appeard
Both in her gait, her grace."

Yes: she hath cleane forsaken me,
And left me all alone;
Who some time loved me as her life,
And called me her owne.

"What is the cause she leaves thee thus,
And a new way doth take,
That some times loved thee as her life,
And thee her joy did make?"

I that loved her all my youth,
Growe old now as you see;
Love liketh not the falling fruite,
Nor yet the withered tree.

For love is like a carelesse childe,
Forgetting promise past:
He is blind, or deaf, whenere he list;
His faith is never fast.

His fond desire is fickle found,
And yieldes a trustlesse joye;
Wonne with a world of toil and care,
And lost ev'n with a toye.

Such is the love of womankinde,
Or Loves faire name abusde,
Beneathe which many vaine desires,
And follyes are excusde.

But true love is a lasting fire,
Which viewless vestals tend,
That burnes for ever in the soule,
And knowes nor change, nor end.