Claia. Beleeue me Gerle, this will be fine,
    And to this Pendant, then take mine;
    A Cup in fashion of a Fly,
    Of the Linxes piercing eye,
    Wherein there sticks a Sunny Ray
    Shot in through the cleerest day,
    Whose brightnesse Venus selfe did moue,
    Therein to put her drinke of Loue,
    Which for more strength she did distill,
    The Limbeck was a Phoenix quill, 40
    At this Cups delicious brinke,
    A Fly approching but to drinke,
    Like Amber or some precious Gumme
    It transparant doth become.

      Cloris. For Iewels for her eares she’s sped,
    But for a dressing for her head
    I thinke for her I haue a Tyer,
    That all Fayryes shall admyre,
    The yellowes in the full-blowne Rose,
    Which in the top it doth inclose 50
    Like drops of gold Oare shall be hung;
    Vpon her Tresses, and among
    Those scattered seeds (the eye to please)
    The wings of the Cantharides: 
    With some o’ th’ Raine-bow that doth raile
    Those Moons in, in the Peacocks taile: 
    Whose dainty colours being mixt
    With th’ other beauties, and so fixt,
    Her louely Tresses shall appeare,
    As though vpon a flame they were. 60
    And to be sure she shall be gay,
    We’ll take those feathers from the Iay;
    About her eyes in Circlets set,
    To be our Tita’s Coronet.

      Mertilla. Then dainty Girles I make no doubt,
    But we shall neatly send her out: 
    But let’s amongst our selues agree,
    Of what her wedding Gowne shall be.

      Claia. Of Pansie, Pincke, and Primrose leaues,
    Most curiously laid on in Threaues:  70
    And all embroydery to supply,
    Powthred with flowers of Rosemary: 
    A trayle about the skirt shall runne,
    The Silkewormes finest, newly spunne;
    And euery Seame the Nimphs shall sew
    With th’ smallest of the Spinners Clue: 
    And hauing done their worke, againe
    These to the Church shall beare her Traine: 
    Which for our Tita we will make
    Of the cast slough of a Snake, 80
    Which quiuering as the winde doth blow,
    The Sunne shall it like Tinsell shew.

      Cloris. And being led to meet her mate,
    To make sure that she want no state,
    Moones from the Peacockes tayle wee’ll shred,
    With feathers from the Pheasants head: 
    Mix’d with the plume of (so high price,)
    The precious bird of Paradice. 
    Which to make vp, our Nimphes shall ply
    Into a curious Canopy. 90
    Borne o’re her head (by our enquiry)
    By Elfes, the fittest of the Faery.