SALUTATION OF MAIA.
FROM THE “MASQUE OF THE PENATES.”
If every pleasure were distilled
Of every flower in every field,
And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,
Were into one broad mazer filled;
If thereto added all the gums
And spice that from Panchaïs comes,
The odor that Hydaspes lends,
Or Phœnix proves before she ends;
If all the air my Flora drew,
Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,
Were put therein; and all the dew
That every rosy morning knew;
Yet all diffused upon this bower,
To make one sweet detaining hour,
Were much too little for the grace
And honor you vouchsafe the place;
But if you please to come again,
We vow we will not then with vain
And empty pastimes entertain
Your so desired, though grieved, pain;
For we will have the wanton fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,
To dance their wilder rounds about,
To cleave the air with many a shout,
As they would hunt poor Echo out
Of yonder valley, who doth flout,
Their rustic noises, to visit whom,
You shall behold whole bevies come
Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls
Well tuned unto the many falls
Of sweet and several sliding rills,
That stream from tops of those less hills,
Like so many silver quills,
When Zephyr them with music fills.
For them Favonius here shall blow
New flowers, that you shall see to grow—
Of which each hand a part shall take,
And for your heads fresh garlands make,
Wherewith, while they your temples round,
An air of several birds shall sound
An Io Pæon, that shall drown
The acclamation at your crown.
All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,
May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.
Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.