See the chariot at hand here of love
Wherein my lady rideth.
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth;
As she goes all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side
Through swords, through seas whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes,
They do light all that Love's world compriseth.
Do but look on her hair,
It is bright as Love's star when it riseth.
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life,
All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the brier
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!