The Maides to smile, the woods to springe,
The Mountaines droppe, the valleys morne
Till Jack and Tom do safe returne.
What may that be that mov'd this woe?
Whose want afflicts Arcadia so?
The hope of Greece, the proppe of artes,
Was prinly Jack, the joy of hartes.
And Tom was to his Royall Paw
His trusty swayne, his chiefest maw.
The loftye Toppes of Menalus