Ross Neil's Cid.

I love Ximena; where her footstep falls
There is my light, my breath, the treasury
Of all my joys.
Oh, this is news as welcome to mine ear
As is the first sweet breath of wak'ning spring
To frost-starved saplings.
Whose service would outweigh as many faults
As there are motes at play in the sun's broad beam.
A lion, to be done to death by curs,
So stabbing envy of doth help to make
The greatness that it wounds.
Yet was joy once mine; it lighted on me as the bird
Rests on the tree in passing, and takes wing.