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,
  Refining 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 which bounds she balm encloses,
  Apt to entice a deity:
    Heigh ho, would she were mine!

 ... 

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
  The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for her 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!