Like to the clear in highest sphere
  Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same colour is her hair
  Whether unfolded or in twines:
    Heigh ho, fair Rosaline.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
  [Resembling]1 heav'n by ev'ry wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
  And I do tremble when I think:
    Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
  That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
  That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:
    Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses,
  Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within [whose]2 bounds she balm encloses,
  Apt to entice a deity:
    Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower
  Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
  From her divine and sacred eyes:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 
Her paps are centres of delight,
  Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
  To feed perfection with the same:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine! 
 
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
  With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
  Yet soft [to]3 touch and sweet in view:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 
Nature herself her shape admires;
  The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
  And at her eyes his brand doth light:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
  The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for [a]4 fair there 's fairer none,
  Nor for her virtues so divine:
    Heigh ho, fair Rosaline:
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!