Is your lady beautiful? Since I came here from the country, I've not seen her close. Tell me, is she beautiful?
Thomas, if I could write with the beauty in her eyes, I was born to look in them and know myself.
And, her lips?
Her lips? The early morning rose would wither on the branch if it could feel envy.
And her voice like a lark's song?
Deeper, softer, none of your twittering larks. I would banish nightingales from her garden before they interrupted her song.
Oh, she sings too?
Constantly. Without doubt, and plays the lute. She has a natural ear.