I thought of your beauty， and this arrow，

    Made out of a wild thought， is in my marrow¹.

    There‘s no man may look upon her， no man，

    As when newly grown to be a woman，

    Tall and noble but with face and bosom²

    Delicate in colour as apple blossom.

    This beauty‘s kinder， yet for a reason

    I could weep that the old is out of season

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