While thou dost praise the Roses, Lillies, Gold,
Which in a dangling Tresse and Face appeare,
Still stands the Sunne in Skies thy Songs to heare,
A Silence sweet each Whispering Wind doth hold,
Sleepe in Pasitheas Lap his Eyes doth fold,
The Sword falls from the God of the fift Spheare,
The Heards to feede, the Birds to sing, forbeare,
Each plant breathes Loue, each Flood and Fountaine cold:
And hence it is, that that once Nymphe, now Tree,
Who did th'Amphrisian Shepheards Sighes disdaine,
And scorn'd his Layes, mou'd by a sweeter Veine,
Is become pittifull, and followes Thee:
Thee loues, and vanteth that shee hath the Grace.
A Garland for thy Lockes to enterlace.