[Enter Iris.]
60 Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, [thy] rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with [pioned] and [twilled] brims,
65 Which spongy April at thy best betrims,
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy [broom-groves],
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn; thy [pole-clipt] vineyard;