VI.

At last, so faire a ladie did I spie, That thinking yet on her I burne and quake: On hearbs and flowres she walked pensively; Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake: White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were As snow and golde together had been wrought: Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her. A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure, And, well assur’d, she mounted up to ioy. Alas! on earth so nothing doth endure, But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy: Which make this life wretched and miserable. Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.