Not halfe so much the act as end:
That, what with dreams in sleepe of rurall blisse,
Night growes farre shorter than shee is.
The damaske meddowes, and the crawlinge streames,
Sweeten, and make soft thy dreams.
The purlinge springes, groves, birdes, and well-weav’d bowers,
With fields enamelled with flowers,
Present thee shapes, whilst phantasye discloses
Millions of lillyes mixt with roses.
Then dreame thou hear’st the lambe with many a bleat