Weeping full sore

Weeping full sore, with face as fayre as silver
Not wanting rose nor lily white to paint it
I saw a lady walke, fast by a river
Uppon whose bankes Dianaes Nimphes all dawnced
Her beauty great had divers gods inchaunted
Among the which love was the first transformed
Who unto her his bow and shafts had graunted
And by her sight, to adament was turned
Alas quoth I, what meaneth this demeanure
So faire a dame to be so full of sorowe:
No wonder, quoth a Nimphe, she wanted pleasure
Her teares and sighes ne ceasse from eave to morow:
This lady, Rich is of the gifts of beauty
But unto her, are gifts of fortune daynty