Cloe. And I beyond measure,
      Am rauisht with pleasure, 150
      To answer each Ceasure,
      Untill thou beist weary.

        Naijs. Behold the Rosye Dawne,
      Rises in Tinsild Lawne,
      And smiling seemes to fawne,
      Vpon the mountaines.

        Cloe. Awaked from her Dreames,
      Shooting foorth goulden Beames
      Dansing vpon the Streames
      Courting the Fountaines. 160

        Naijs. These more then sweet Showrets,
      Intice vp these Flowrets,
      To trim vp our Bowrets,
      Perfuming our Coats.

        Cloe. Whilst the Birds billing
      Each one with his Dilling
      The thickets still filling
      With Amorous Noets.

        Naijs. The Bees vp in hony rould,
      More then their thighes can hould, 170
      Lapt in their liquid gould,
      Their Treasure vs Bringing.

        Cloe. To these Rillets purling
      Vpon the stones Curling,
      And oft about wherling,
      Dance tow’ard their springing.

        Naijs. The Wood-Nimphes sit singing,
      Each Groue with notes ringing
      Whilst fresh Ver is flinging
      Her Bounties abroad. 180

        Cloe. So much as the Turtle,
      Upon the low Mertle,
      To the meads fertle,
      Her cares doth unload.

        Naijs. Nay ’tis a world to see,
      In euery bush and Tree,
      The Birds with mirth and glee,
      Woo’d as they woe.

        Cloe. The Robin and the Wren,
      Every Cocke with his Hen, 190
      Why should not we and men,
      Doe as they doe.

        Naijs. The Faires are hopping,
      The small Flowers cropping,
      And with dew dropping,
      Skip thorow the Greaues.

        Cloe. At Barly-breake they play
      Merrily all the day,
      At night themselues they lay
      Vpon the soft leaues. 200

        Naijs. The gentle winds sally,
      Vpon every Valley,
      And many times dally
      And wantonly sport.

        Cloe. About the fields tracing,
      Each other in chasing,
      And often imbracing,
      In amorous sort.

        Naijs. And Eccho oft doth tell
      Wondrous things from her Cell, 210
      As her what chance befell,
      Learning to prattle.

        Cloe. And now she sits and mocks
      The Shepherds and their flocks,
      And the Heards from the Rocks
      Keeping their Cattle.