There, in a meadow by the rivers side,
A flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, 20
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a bryde;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrayled* curiously, 25
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket**,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously@
The tender stalkes on hye. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew
They gathered some; the violet, pallid blew, 30
The little dazie, that at evening closes,
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegroomes posies
Against the brydale day, which was not long:  35
  Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
[* Entrayled, interwoven.]
[** Flasket, a long, shallow basket.]
[@ Feateously, dexterously.]

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the lee*: 
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew 40
Did never whiter shew,
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near:  45
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, 50
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their brydale day, which was not long: 
  Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
[* Lee, stream.]

Eftsoones, the Nymphes, which now had flowers their fill, 55
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the cristal flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,
Their wondring eyes to fill. 
Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre 60
Of fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the skie draw Venus stiver teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly seede, 65
But rather angels, or of angels breede;
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest season, when each flower and weede
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem’d as day, 70
Even as their brydale day, which was not long: 
  Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
[Ver. 67—­Somers-heat.  A pun on the name of the Ladies Somerset.  C.]