We left our glasses empty and betook ourselves to the bower in the garden so twined and wreathed with the gold and amber horns of honey-suckle spilling their fragrance that my soul was ravisht, and Mr. Herrick fetching his lute saluted mine ears with strains celestial, adding his voice thereto at moments, yet not loud but as if thinking melodiously to himself in serene reverie in the deepening twilight.
“Hear, ye virgins, and I’ll teach
What the times of old did preach.
Rosamund was in a bower
Kept, as Danae in a tower.
But yet Love who subtle is,
Crept to that, and came to this!
Be ye lockèd up like these
Or the rich Hesperides,
Or those babies in your eyes