I stood tip toe upon a little hill,
Over the plains and my own will,
Over a love that remains still,
For it has nought a life to quill.
But what am I that for which love forsakes,
If not a penne of hollow and flakes?
Alas! Love becoming in shapes, fonts
By which the letters are bold and golden,
But whose shape has love formed,
It is you o sweet beholden!
Hair as silky with sweet honey brush,
A smile that a fleet would damnly be crushed?
Atop the little hill I found a gully, to
Couler, to slide in reaching unto,
O you, my sweet beloved Love,
Felling and tumbling to your safety cove.
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