That I no sooner could the hearing lose
Of one of them, but straight another rose,
And perching deftly on a quaking spray,
Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.
. . . . .
Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.
From Britannia's Pastorals.
Music on the Thames
As I have seen when on the breast of Thames
A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,