And by the mossy moots the covert shorn
Now lieth low in swathe like autumn corn.
These ere he lop and into bundles bind,
Let us go choose the fairest we may find,
And of their feathered orphan saplings weave
A bowery dome, until the birds believe
We build a nest, and are come here to dwell.
Hie forth, ye Scyrian maids; do as I tell:
And having built our bower amid the green,
We will choose one among us for a queen,