My lady’s presence makes the roses red because to see her lips they blush for shame: The lily’s leaves for envy pale became, and her white hands in them this envy bred. The marigold abroad its leaves did spread because the sun’s and her power is the same the violet of purple colour came, dyed with the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take; from her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed; the living heat which her eyebeams do make warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed. The rain wherewith she watereth these flowers falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers.
-Henry Constable
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