I could weep that the old is out of season.
Theres no manmay look upon her, no man,
I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
The Arrow
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colouras apple blossom.
As when newly grown to be a woman,
This beautys kinder, yet for a reason
