NEVER TOO LATE: AN ODE by ROBERT GREENE

DOWN the valley gan he track,
Bag and bottle at his back,
In a surcoat all of grey;
Such wear palmers on the way,
When with scrip and staff they see
Jesus' grave on Calvary:
A hat of straw, like a swain,
Shelter for the sun and rain,
With a scallop-shell before;
Sandals on his feet he wore;
Legs were bare, arms unclad:
Such attire this palmer had.
His face fair, like Titan's shine;
Grey and buxom were his eyne,
Whereout dropt pearls of sorrow;
Such sweet tears Love doth borrow,
When in outward dews he plains
Heart's distress that lovers pains;
Ruby lips, cherry cheeks;
Such rare mixture Venus seeks,
When, to keep her damsels quiet,
Beauty sets them down their diet:'
Adon was not thought more fair:
Curled locks of amber hair,
Locks where Love did sit and twine
Nets to snare the gazer's eyne.
Such a palmer ne'er was seen,
'Less Love himself had palmer been.
Yet, for all he was so quaint,
Sorrow did his visage taint:
Midst the riches of his face
Grief decipher'd high disgrace.
Every step strain'd a tear;
Sudden sighs show'd his fear;
And yet his fear by his sight
Ended in a strange delight;
That his passions did approve
Weeds and sorrow were for love.

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