“And more to lull him in his slumber soft
        A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
      And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft,
        Mix’d with a murmuring wind, much like the sound
      Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swound. 
        No other noise, nor people’s troublous cries. 
      That still are wont t’ annoy the walled town
        Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies
      Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies.”

It is as if “the honey-heavy dew of slumber” had settled on his pen in writing these lines.  How different in the subject (and yet how like in beauty) is the following description of the Bower of Bliss: 

      “Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound
        Of all that mote delight a dainty ear;
      Such as at once might not on living ground,
        Save in this Paradise, be heard elsewhere: 
      Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
        To tell what manner musicke that mote be;
      For all that pleasing is to living eare
        Was there consorted in one harmonee: 
      Birds, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

      The joyous birdes shrouded in chearefull shade
        Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet: 
      The angelical soft trembling voices made
        To th’ instruments divine respondence meet. 
      The silver sounding instruments did meet
        With the base murmur of the water’s fall;
      The water’s fall with difference discreet,
        Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
      The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.”

The remainder of the passage has all that voluptuous pathos, and languid brilliancy of fancy, in which this writer excelled: 

      “The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;
        Ah! see, whoso fayre thing dost thou fain to see,
      In springing flower the image of thy day! 
        Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly she
      Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty,
        That fairer seems the less ye see her may! 
      Lo! see soon after, how more bold and free
        Her bared bosom she doth broad display;
      Lo! see soon after, how she fades and falls away!

      So passeth in the passing of a day
        Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower;
      Ne more doth flourish after first decay,
        That erst was sought to deck both bed and bower
      Of many a lady and many a paramour! 
        Gather therefore the rose whilst yet is prime,
      For soon comes age that will her pride deflower;
        Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time,
      Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime. [2]