Horace Smith (Горацио Смит)

An Olde Lyric

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
My own true love so sweete?
For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye
The prynte of her faery feete.
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?
Is she darke or fayre to see?
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?
Is't braided her haire or free?

II.

Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
And many as brighte to showe.
But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes,
Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
Of Love and of Puritie. 

1. Address to the Orange-tree at Versailles
2. Campbell’s Funeral
3. Why Are They Shut?
4. To the Rev. A. A. in the Country from His Friend in London
5. Written in the Porch of Binstead Church, Isle of Wight

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