Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,—
What are you, when the Rose is blown? 10
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature’s lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents,—what’s your praise,
When Philomel her voice doth raise? 15
So when my Mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,