Classic Poem

What changes here, O haire,
I see, since I saw you!
How ill fits you this greene to weare,
For hope the colour due!
Indeed, I well did hope,
Though hope were mixte with feare,
No other shepheard should haue scope
Once to approch this heere.

Ah, haire, how many dayes
My Diane made me shew,
With thousand pretty childish plaies,
If I ware you or no!
Alas, how oft with teares,—
O teares of guilefull breast!—
She seemèd full of iealous feares,
Whereat I did but ieast.

Tell me, O haire of gold,
If I then faultie be,
That trust those killing eyes I would,
Since they did warrant me?
Haue you not seene her mood,
What streames of teares she spent,
Till that I sware my faith so stood,
As her words had it bent?

Who hath such beautie seene
In one that changeth so?
Or where one's loue so constant bene,
Who euer saw such woe?
Ah, haire, are you not greiu'd
To come from whence you be,
Seeing how once you saw I liu'd,
To see me as you see?

On sandie bank of late
I saw this woman sit,
Where, ‘Sooner die then change my state,’
She with her finger writ:
Thus my beleefe was staid
(Behold Loue's mightie hand)
On things were by a woman said,
And written in the sand.