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._ When to these Maids the Muses silence cry, For 'twas the opinion of the Company, That were not these two taken of, that they Would in their Conflict wholly spend the day. 220 When as the Turne to _Florimel_ next came, A Nimph for Beauty of especiall name, Yet was she not so Iolly as the rest: And though she were by her companions prest, Yet she by no intreaty would be wrought To sing, as by th' Elizian Lawes she ought: When two bright Nimphes that her companions were, And of all other onely held her deare, Mild _Claris_ and _Mertilla_, with faire speech Their most beloued _Florimel_ beseech, 230 T'obserue the Muses, and the more to wooe her, They take their turnes, and thus they sing vnto her. Cloris. _Sing, _Florimel_, O sing, and wee Our whole wealth will giue to thee, We'll rob the brim of euery Fountaine, Strip the sweets from euery Mountaine, We will sweepe the curled valleys, Brush the bancks that mound our allyes, We will muster natures dainties When she wallowes in her plentyes, 240 The lushyous smell of euery flower New washt by an Aprill shower, The Mistresse of her store we'll make thee That she for her selfe shall take thee; Can there be a dainty thing, That's not thine if thou wilt sing._