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Poem	LOe where she comes along with portly pace, Lyke Phoebe from her chamber of the East, Arysing forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. So well it her beseemes that ye would weene Some angell she had beene. Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre, And being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden Queene, Her modest eyes abashed to behold So many gazers, as on her do stare, Vpon the lowly ground affixed are. Ne dare lift vp her countenance too bold, But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, So farre from being proud. Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
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