Pomegranates, Lymons, Cytrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaues in number that outgoe
Nor roomth will them alow.
There in perpetuall Summers shade,
Apolloes Prophets sit,
Among the flowres that neuer fade,
But flowrish like their wit;
To whom the Nimphes vpon their Lyres,
90Tune many a curious lay,
And with their most melodious Quires
Make short the longest day.
The thrice three Virgins heavenly Cleere,
Their trembling Timbrels sound,
Whilst the three comely Graces there
Dance many a dainty Round,
Decay nor Age there nothing knowes,
There is continuall Youth,
As Time on plant or creatures growes,
100So still their strength renewth.
The Poets Paradice this is,
To which but few can come;
The Muses onely bower of blisse
Their Deare Elizium.
Here happy soules, (their blessed bowers,
Free from the rude resort
Of beastly people) spend the houres,
In harmelesse mirth and sport,
Then on to the Elizian plaines
110Apollo doth invite you
Where he prouides with pastorall straines,
In Nimphals to delight you.