VI.

At last so faire a ladie did I spie, That thinking yet on her I burn and quake; On hearts 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 beene wrought; Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her, A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre; And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy. Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy; Which make this life wretched and miserable, Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.