A Seventeenth-Century Song

SHE alone of Shepherdesses,
With her blue disdayning eyes,
Wo’d not hark a King that dresses
All his lute in sighs:
Yet to winne
I elect for mine Emprise.
None is like her, none above her,
Who so lifts my youth in me,
That a little more to love her
Were to leave her free!
But to winne
Is mine utmost love’s degree.
Distaunce, cold, delay, and danger
Build the four walls of her bower;
She’s noe Sweete for any stranger,
She ’s noe valley-flower ;
And to winne
To her height my heart can Tower!
Uppe to Beautie’s promontory
I will climb, nor loudlie call
Perfect and escapèd glory
Folly, if I fall.
Well to winne
Katheryn !
To be worth her is my all.
Louise Imogen Guiney.