There did the vials voyce abounde, In musicke angel-like profounde: There did the phife dispredden rounde His songe in many a variant sounde. All birdes with tunefull bosoms sing, The blackbird makes the woods to ring: The thrush, the jay, and she[19] in spring Rues the past rape of Thraces king. Their shrill notes to the musicke plying, Then all the different flowrs descrying, The odors in abundance flying, Prov'd it the bowre of Loves soft-lying. The virgins something entered here, And sprinckled with a little feare, Their harts before that helde Love deare, In Cupids flames encreased were. And while each winged forester Their proper rumors[20] did prefer, Each virgins minde made waight on her Applauses apt and singuler. Deathles were he coulde there repose, Each path his spycie odor stroes: Of mirh and synamon there groes, And of our blessed Ladyes rose. Each tree hath there his severall blisse, In fruites that never season misse: Men may conceave how sweete Love is, By that celestiall court of his. The dauncing companies they see Of young men and of maydens free; Whose bodyes are as bright in blee,[21] As starrs illustrate bodyes bee. In which so mervaylous a guyse Of unexpected novelties, These virgins bosoms through their eyes Were daunted with a quicke surprise. Who stay their royall steads outright, And almost from their seates alight: Forgetting their endevors quight, With that proud rumors sweete affright. But when sad Philomene did straine Her rape-full-raving brest againe, These ladyes hearing hir complaine, Were reinflamd in every vaine. About the center of the spring, A secret place is where they sing, And use their supreme worshypping, Of Loves neare-darting fiery king. There many a two-shapt companie, Of faunes, nimphes, satyres, meete and plie The tymbrell and the psalterie, Before Loves sacred majestie. There beare they goblets bigg with wine, And coronets of flowrs combine: There nimphs and fauns demy-divine, Doth Bacchus teach to foote it fine. Who keepe true measure with their feete, That to the instruments do fleete: But olde Silenus playes not sweete In consort, but indents the streete.[22] The spring-sleepe did his temples lode, As on a long-eard asse he rode: Laughters excesse, to see him nod, Dissolv'd the bosome of the God. Fresh cups he ever cals uppon, In sounds of imperfection, With age and Bacchus overgon, They stop his voyces organon. Amongst this gamesome crew is seene, The issue of the Cyprian Queene, Whose head and shoulders fethered beene, And as the starrs his countnance sheene.