O thou fayre torch of heauen, the days most dearest light,
And thou bright shyning Cinthya, the glory of the night: 
You starres the eyes of heauen,
And thou the glyding leuen, 40
And thou O gorgeous Iris with all strange Colours dyd,
When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,
And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy Beta to imbrace,
The Syrens sing sweete layes,
The Trytons sound her prayse,
Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast vnto the Ocean sea,
And let thy billowes there proclaime thy Betas holy-day.

And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Oliue tree,
With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserued be, 50
Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours,
And mirtle for Loues Paramours: 
That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preseru’d by peace,
And let the mournful Cipres die, now stormes and tempest cease.

Wee’l straw the shore with pearle where Beta walks alone,
And we wil paue her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,
Perfume the ayre and make it sweete,
For such a Goddesse it is meete,
For if her eyes for purity contend with Titans light,
No maruaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight. 60

Sound out your trumpets then, from London’s stately towres,
To beate the stormie windes a back and calme the raging showres,
Set too the Cornet and the flute,
The Orpharyon and the Lute,
And tune the Taber and the Pipe, to the sweet violons,
And moue the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.

Beta long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice,
And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,
Thy shepheards watch by day and night,
Thy Mayds attend the holy light, 70
And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east vnto the west,
And thou vnder thy feet mayst tread, that foule seuen-headed beast.

From Eclogue iv

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
with weeping verse,
attend his hearse,
Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
Warble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fatall obsequie,
with Cypres bowes, 10
maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,
vnto our endless mone,
from vs why art thou gone,
To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest loue,
When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee, 20
Immortal mirror of all Poesie: 
the Muses treasure,
the Graces pleasure,
Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.