Marlowe.
Did it ever happen to you to read upon a summer’s day that delightful old book—of a half century later—called The Complete Angler; and do you remember how, on a certain evening when the quiet Angler had beguiled himself with loitering under beech-trees and watching the lambs and listening to the birds, he did encounter, in an adjoining field, a handsome milkmaid, who lifted up her voice—which was like a nightingale’s—to an old-fashioned song, beginning?—
“Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field
Or woods, or steepy mountains yield—
And I will make thee beds of roses
And then a thousand fragrant posies
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.”