As the yong faune, vhen vinter's gone avay
Vnto a sueter saison granting place,
More vanton growne by smyles of heuen's faire face,
Leauith the silent voods at breake of day,
And now on hils, and now by brookes doth pray
On tender flowrs, secure and solitar,
Far from all cabans, and vher shephards are;
Vher his desir him guides his foote doth stray,
He fearith not the dart nor other armes,
Til he be schoot in to the noblest part
By cuning archer, vho in dark bush lyes:
So innocent, not fearing comming harmes,
Vandering vas I that day vhen your faire eies,
Vorld-killing schafts, gaue death-vounds to my hart.