Air's fleeting tuns crystalline streams distil,
To wash the grassy-tufted tapestry
Which whistling winds, with murm'rings, haste to dry.
And ev'ry tender branch whereon you tread
1220To make your tracing, pacing, moves its head.
Alcinous' orchard, or that precious root
Which bore old Atlas' daughters golden fruit;
Th' Idalian mount where Cytherea strayed,
Or that where Ceres' luckless daughter played
Whenas the king of shades surprisèd her.