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(From Britannia’s Pastorals)
A LITTLE grove is seated on the marge | |
| Of Tavy’s streame, not over thicke nor large, | |
| Where every morn a quire of Silvans sung, | |
| And leaves to chatt’ring winds serv’d as a tongue, | |
| By whom the water runs in many a ring, | 5 |
| As if it fain would stay to heare them sing, | |
| And on the top a thousand young birds flye, | |
| To be instructed in their harmony. | |
| Neere to the end of this all-joysome grove | |
| A dainty circled plot seem’d as it strove | 10 |
| To keepe all bryers and bushes from invading | |
| Her pleasing compasse by their needlesse shading, | |
| Since it was not so large but that the store | |
| Of trees around could shade her breast and more. | |
| In midst thereof a little swelling hill, | 15 |
| Gently disburd’ned of a christall rill | |
| Which from the greenside of the flow’ry bancke | |
| Eat downe a channell; here the wood-nymphs dranke, | |
| And great Diana, having slaine the deere, | |
| Did often use to come and bathe her here. | 20 |
| Here talk’d they of their chase, and where next day | |
| They meant to hunt: here did the shepheards play, | |
| And many a gaudy nymph was often seene | |
| Imbracing shepheard’s boyes upon this greene. | |
| From hence the spring hasts downe to Tavy’s brim, | 25 |
| And pays a tribute of his drops to him. | |
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