Naijs. Behold the Rosye Dawne,
Rises in Tinsild Lawne,
And smiling seemes to fawne,
Vpon the mountaines.
Cloe. Awaked from her Dreames,
Shooting foorth goulden Beames
Dansing vpon the Streames
160Courting the Fountaines.
Naijs. These more then sweet Showrets,
Intice vp these Flowrets,
To trim vp our Bowrets,
Perfuming our Coats.
Cloe. Whilst the Birds billing
Each one with his Dilling
The thickets still filling
With Amorous Noets.
Naijs. The Bees vp in hony rould,
170More then their thighes can hould,
Lapt in their liquid gould,
Their Treasure vs Bringing.
Cloe. To these Rillets purling
Vpon the stones Curling,
And oft about wherling,
Dance tow'ard their springing.
Naijs. The Wood-Nimphes sit singing,
Each Groue with notes ringing
Whilst fresh Ver is flinging
180Her Bounties abroad.
Cloe. So much as the Turtle,
Upon the low Mertle,
To the meads fertle,
Her cares doth unload.
Naijs. Nay 'tis a world to see,
In euery bush and Tree,
The Birds with mirth and glee,
Woo'd as they woe.
Cloe. The Robin and the Wren,
190Every Cocke with his Hen,
Why should not we and men,
Doe as they doe.