(10) Of faire Eliza be your siluer song, That blessed wight: The flower of Virgins, may she flourish long In Princely plight: For she is Sirinx daughter, without spot, +(15) Which Pan the Shepheards God on her begot: So sprung her Grace, Of heauenly race: No mortall blemish may her blot.
See where she sits vpon the grassie greene, (20) O seemely sight: Yclad in scarlet, like a mayden Queene, And Ermines white. +Vpon her head a crimson Coronet, With Daffadils and Damaske Roses set, (25) Bay leaues betweene, And Primeroses greene: Embellish the sweet Violet.
Tell me, haue ye beheld her Angels face, Like Phœbe faire? (30) Her heauenly hauiour, her Princely Grace, Can well compare The red-Rose medled and the white yfere, In either cheeke depeincten liuely cheere. Her modest eye, (35) Her Maiestie, Where haue you seene the like but there?
I saw Phoebus thrust out his golden head, On her to gaze: