Nimphes. To thee then braue Caliope_ we come
      Thou that maintain’st, the Trumpet, and the Drum;
      The neighing Steed that louest to heare,
      Clashing of Armes doth please thine eare,
      In lofty Lines that do’st rehearse
      Things worthy of a thundring verse, 450
      And at no tyme are heard to straine,
      On ought that suits a Common vayne._

        Chorus.  Caliope_, craue Phebus to inspire,
      Vs for his Alters with his holyest fier,
      And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes,
      Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes._

        Nimphes. Then Polyhymnia_ most delicious Mayd,
      In Rhetoricks Flowers that art arayd,
      In Tropes and Figures, richly drest,
      The Fyled Phrase that louest best, 460
      That art all Elocution, and
      The first that gau’st to vnderstand
      The force of wordes in order plac’d
      And with a sweet deliuery grac’d._

        Chorus. Sweet Muse perswade our Phoebus_ to inspire
      Vs for his Altars, with his holiest fire,
      And let his glorious euer shining Rayes
      Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes._

        Nimphes. Lofty Vrania_ then we call to thee,
      To whom the Heauens for euer opened be, 470
      Thou th’ Asterismes by name dost call,
      And shewst when they doe rise and fall
      Each Planets force, and dost diuine
      His working, seated in his Signe,
      And how the starry Frame still roules
      Betwixt the fixed stedfast Poles._

        Chorus.  Vrania aske of Phoebus_ to inspire
      Vs for his Altars with his holiest fire,
      And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
      Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes._ 480

The fourth Nimphall

CLORIS and MERTILLA.

Chaste Cloris_ doth disclose the shames Of the Felician frantique Dames,_ Mertilla striues t’ apease her woe, To golden wishes then they goe.

  Mertilla. Why how now Cloris, what, thy head

Bound with forsaken Willow? 
Is the cold ground become thy bed? 
The grasse become thy Pillow? 
O let not those life-lightning eyes
In this sad vayle be shrowded,
Which into mourning puts the Skyes,
To see them ouer-clowded.

  Cloris. O my Mertilla doe not praise

These Lampes so dimly burning, 10
Such sad and sullen lights as these
Were onely made for mourning: 
Their obiects are the barren Rocks
With aged Mosse o’r shaded;
Now whilst the Spring layes forth her Locks
With blossomes brauely braded.