LINES
FROM “THE POLYOLBION.”
When Phœbus lifts his head out of the winter’s wave,
No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave;
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,
But hunts-up to the morn the feather’d sylvans sing;
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole
Those choristers are perch’d, with many a speckled breast;
Then from her burnish’d gate the goodly glittering East