And strongly pressing forward with disdain
The grassie flore divided into twain.
The place a while did feed my foolish eye
As being new, and eke mine idle ear
Did listen oft to that wild harmonie
And oft my curious phansie would compare
How well agreed the Brooks low muttering Base,
With the birds trebbles pearch’d on higher place.
But senses objects soon do glut the soul,
Or rather weary with their emptinesse;