Her bowes be set in euery loft, For their swete sauours sake. The birdes do shrowd them from the cold, In her we dayly see: (15) And men make arbers as they wold, Under the pleasant tree. It doth me good when I repayre, There as these bayes do grow: Where oft I walke to take the ayre, (20) It doth delight me so. But loe I stand as I were dome, Her beauty for to blase: Wherwith my sprites be ouercome, So long theron I gase. (25) At last I turne vnto my walk, In passing to and fro: And to my self I smile and talk, And then away I go. Why smilest thou say lokers on, (30) what pleasure hast thou found? With that I am as cold as stone, And ready for to swound. Fie fie for shame sayth fansy than, Pluck vp thy faynted hart: (35) And speke thou boldly like a man, Shrinke not for little smart. Wherat I blushe and change my chere, My senses ware so weake: O god think I what make I here, (40) That neuer a word may speake. I dare not sigh lest I be heard, My lokes I slyly cast: And still I stand as one were scarde, Untill my stormes be past. (45) Then happy hap doth me reuiue, The blood comes to my face: A merier man is not aliue, Then I am in that case. Thus after sorow seke I rest, (50) When fled is fansies fit. And though I be a homely gest, Before the bayes I sit.