Your dwelling have, of every hill and dale,
And oft amidst the meadows green do meet
To sport and play, and hear the nightingale,
And in the rivers fresh do wash you feet,
While Progne's sister tels her wofull tale:
Such ayd and power unto my verses lend,
As may suffice this little worke to end.
And thou, sweet Boyd, that with thy wat'ry sway
Dost wash the Cliffes of Deignton and of Week,
And through their rocks with crooked winding way,