Here from the hatefull world we’ll liue,
      A den of mere dispight: 
    To Ideots only that doth giue,
      Which be her sole delight.

    To people the infernall pit,
      That more and more doth striue;
    Where only villany is wit,
      And Diuels only thriue. 180

    Whose vilenesse vs shall neuer awe: 
      But here our sports shall be: 
    Such as the golden world first sawe,
      Most innocent and free.

    Of Simples in these Groues that growe,
      Wee’ll learne the perfect skill;
    The nature of each Herbe to knowe
      Which cures, and which can kill.

    The waxen Pallace of the Bee,
      We seeking will surprise 190
    The curious workmanship to see,
      Of her full laden thighes.

    Wee’ll suck the sweets out of the Combe,
      And make the gods repine: 
    As they doe feast in Ioues great roome,
      To see with what we dine.

    Yet when there haps a honey fall,
      Wee’ll lick the sirupt leaues: 
    And tell the Bees that their’s is gall,
      To this vpon the Greaues. 200

    The nimble Squirrell noting here,
      Her mossy Dray that makes,
    And laugh to see the lusty Deere
      Come bounding ore the brakes.

    The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand,
      And when it takes the Bee,
    Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand,
      The Innocent to free.

    Sometime weele angle at the Brooke,
      The freckled Trout to take, 210
    With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke,
      Which him our prey shall make.

    Of medling with such subtile tooles,
      Such dangers that enclose,
    The Morrall is that painted Fooles,
      Are caught with silken showes.

    And when the Moone doth once appeare,
      Weele trace the lower grounds,
    When Fayries in their Ringlets there
      Do daunce their nightly rounds. 220

    And haue a Flocke of Turtle Doues,
      A guard on vs to keepe,
    A witnesse of our honest loues,
      To watch vs till we sleepe.

    Which spoke I felt such holy fires
      To ouerspred my breast,
    As lent life to my Chast desires
      And gaue me endlesse rest.

    By Cynthia thus doe I subsist,
      On earth Heauens onely pride, 230
    Let her be mine, and let who list,
      Take all the world beside.

FINIS.

THE SHEPHEARDS SIRENA