With an assurance of Thalassian joys,
4220The air was thinnèd with the joyful clamours
(Not of state-satins) but of grammar boys;
And our fresh sponsants in that height of mirth
To every pleasure gave an easy birth.
Now are they landed on the isle of bliss,
Where every joy courts their desires with pleasure;
Envy did then her snaky train dismiss,
For their espousals did all sweet entreasure.
Dead grief bequeathed her stings to thorn and thistle.