THE ARROW
 
 I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
 Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
 There's no man may look upon her, no man,
 As when newly grown to be a woman,
 Tall and noble but with face and bosom
 Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
 This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
 I could weep that the old is out of season.