EDMUND SPENSER
Tell me, have ye scene her angelick face
Like Phoebe fayre? Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare ?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere, In either checke dcpemctcn lively chere.
Her modest eye,
Her Majestic, Where have you scene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my Goddcsbe shines, And after her the other Muses trace
With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare, All for Eliza in her hand to wcare ?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way, That it a heaven is to heare.
��Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
To the Instrument* They dauncen deffly, and singcn soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even? Let that rowne to my Lady be yeven.
She shal be a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place, And reigne with the rest in heaven.
medled] mixed. yfere] together. soote] sweet.
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