Translation

From "La Diana de Monte-Mayor," in Spanish:    where Sireno, a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pulling out a little of her hair, wrapped about with green silk, to the hair he thus bewailed himself.     What changes here, O hair,     I see, since I saw you!     How ill fits you this green to wear,     For hope, the colour due!     Indeed, I well did hope,     Though hope were mixed with fear,     No other shepherd should have scope     Once to approach this hair.     Ah hair! how many days     My Dian made me show,     With thousand pretty childish plays,     If I ware you or no:     Alas, how oft with tears, -     O tears of guileful breast! -     She seemed full of jealous fears,     Whereat I did but jest.     Tell me, O hair of gold,     If I then faulty be,     That trust those killing eyes I would,     Since they did warrant me?     Have you not seen her mood,     What streams of tears she spent,     'Till that I sware my faith so stood,     As her words had it bent?     Who hath such beauty seen     In one that changeth so?     Or where one's love so constant been,     Who ever saw such woe?     Ah, hair! are you not grieved     To come from whence you be,     Seeing how once you saw I lived,     To see me as you see?     On sandy bank of late,     I saw this woman sit;     Where, "Sooner die than change my state,"     She with her finger writ:     Thus my belief was staid,     Behold Love's mighty hand     On things were by a woman said,     And written in the sand.     The same Sireno in "Monte-Mayor," holding his mistress's glass before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus sang:-     Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined,     No farther debt on me is laid,     Since that in self-same metal coined,     Sweet lady, you remain well paid;     For if my place give me great pleasure,     Having before my nature's treasure,     In face and eyes unmatched being,     You have the same in my hands, seeing     What in your face mine eyes do measure.     Nor think the match unevenly made,     That of those beams in you do tarry,     The glass to you but gives a shade,     To me mine eyes the true shape carry;     For such a thought most highly prized,     Which ever hath Love's yoke despised,     Better than one captived perceiveth,     Though he the lively form receiveth,     The other sees it but disguised.