Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire
Sometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quire
Of Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,
And give the wildernesse of his nature law.
The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rocke
The rigor doth of its creation mocke,
And gently melts away: Argus to heare
The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.
To welcome thee, Endymion, glorious they