The
blush that gloried Luna, when she kissed the shepherd on the hills of
Latmos, was not tainted with such a pleasant dye as the vermilion
flourished on the silver hue of Rosalynde's countenance: her eyes were
like those lamps that make the wealthy covert of the heavens more
gorgeous, sparkling favor and disdain, courteous and yet coy, as if in
them Venus had placed all her amorets, and Diana all her chastity. The
trammels of her hair, folded in a caul[1] of gold, so far surpassed
the burnished glister of the metal, as the sun doth the meanest star
in brightness: the tresses that folds in the brows of Apollo were not
half so rich to the sight, for in her hairs it seemed love had laid
herself in ambush, to entrap the proudest eye that durst gaze upon
their excellence: what should I need to decipher her particular
beauties, when by the censure of all she was the paragon of all
earthly perfection? This Rosalynde sat, I say, with Alinda as a
beholder of these sports, and made the cavaliers crack their lances
with more courage: many deeds of knighthood that day were performed,
and many prizes were given according to their several deserts.
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