Tell me O haire of gold, If I then faultie be: That trust those killing eyes I would, (20) Since they did warrant me? Haue you not seene her moode, What streames of teares she spent: Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?
(25) Who hath such beautie seene, In one that changeth so? Or where one loues, so constant beene, Who euer saw such woe? Ah haires, you are not grieu’d, (30) To come from whence you be: Seeing how once you saw I liu’d, To see me as you see.
On sandie banke of late, I saw this woman sit: (35) Where, Sooner die then change my state, She with her finger writ. Thus my beliefe was stay’d, Behold Loues mighty hand On things, were by a woman say’d, (40) And written in the sand.
Translated by S. Phil. Sidney, out of
Diana of Montmaior.