The tippet-grebes did congregate,
The snow-white heron tower’d.
Now all their water-ways are dry;
Then sit we ’twixt the setting
Of yon bright orb that gilds the sky,
And Cynthia’s crystal fretting.
Behold how Ceres’ lap is full:
O may no fortune fickle
The bounteous goddess’ gifts annul,
Or stint the golden sickle!