Montanus' Praise of his fair Phoebe

Phoebe sat.
Sweet she sat.

Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her.
White her brow.
Coy her eye,

Brow and eye, how much you please me!
Words I spent.
Sighs I sent.

Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh, my love!
Thou art lost.

Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount.

Sitting by a fount I spied her.
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice,

Touch and voice what may distain you!
As she sung,
I did sigh,

And by sighs whilst that I tried her.
Oh, mine eyes!
You did lose

Her first sight, whose want did pain you,
Phoebe's flocks
White as wool.

Yet were Phoebe's looks more whiter,
Phoebe's eyes
Dovelike mild.

Dovelike eyes both mild and cruel;
Montane swears
In your lamps

He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield.
Or I die;

Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?