Weping full sore, with face as fayre as silver,
not wanting rose nor lily white to paint it,
I saw a lady walke, fast by a river,
uppon whose bankes Dianaes Nimphes all dawnced,
her beauty great had divers gods inchaunted,
among the which love was the first transformed,
who unto her his bow and shafts had graunted,
and by her sight, to adament was turned.
Alas quoth I, what meaneth this demeanure,
so faire a dame to be so full of sorowe:
No wonder, quoth a Nimphe, she wanted pleasure,
her teares and sighes ne ceasse from eave to morow:
This lady, Rich is of the gifts of beauty,
but unto her, are gifts of fortune daynty.