Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays,
Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping,
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.
I saw Calliope with Muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,
Their ivory lutes and tambourins forgo,
And from the fountain, where they sat around,
Run after hastily thy silver sound;