’Amid red roses and white lilies there,
      Which the soft breezes freshen as they fly,
    Secure the cony haunts, and timid hare,
      And stag, with branching forehead broad and high. 
    These, fearless of the hunter’s dart or snare,
      Feed at their ease, or ruminating lie;
    While, swarming in those wilds, from tuft or steep,
      Dun deer or nimble goat disporting leap.’

Rose’s Orlando Furioso.

Spenser’s description of the garden of Adonis is too long to give entire, but I shall quote a few stanzas.  The old story on which Spenser founds his description is told with many variations of circumstance and meaning; but we need not quit the pages of the Faerie Queene to lose ourselves amidst obscure mythologies.  We have too much of these indeed even in Spenser’s own version of the fable.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

      Great enimy to it, and all the rest
      That in the Gardin of Adonis springs,
      Is wicked Time; who with his scythe addrest
      Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things,
      And all their glory to the ground downe flings,
      Where they do wither and are fowly mard
      He flyes about, and with his flaggy wings
      Beates downe both leaves and buds without regard,
    Ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard.

* * * * *

      But were it not that Time their troubler is,
      All that in this delightful gardin growes
      Should happy bee, and have immortall blis: 
      For here all plenty and all pleasure flowes;
      And sweete Love gentle fitts emongst them throwes,
      Without fell rancor or fond gealosy. 
      Franckly each paramour his leman knowes,
      Each bird his mate; ne any does envy
    Their goodly meriment and gay felicity.

      There is continual spring, and harvest there
      Continuall, both meeting at one tyme: 
      For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare. 
      And with fresh colours decke the wanton pryme,
      And eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme,
      Which seeme to labour under their fruites lode: 
      The whiles the ioyous birdes make their pastyme
      Emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode,
    And their trew loves without suspition tell abrode.

      Right in the middest of that Paradise
      There stood a stately mount, on whose round top
      A gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise,
      Whose shady boughes sharp steele did never lop,
      Nor wicked beastes their tender buds did crop,
      But like a girlond compassed the hight,
      And from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop,
      That all the ground, with pretious deaw bedight,
    Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight.