In which all pleasures plenteously abound,
And none does others happinesse enuye:
The painted flowres, the trees vpshooting hye,
The dales for shade, the hilles for breathing space,
The trembling groues, the Christall running by;
And that, which all faire workes doth most aggrace,
The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.
One would haue thought, (so cunningly, the rude, lix
And scorned parts were mingled with the fine,)
That nature had for wantonesse ensude