Eftsoones{19} the Nymphes, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the cristal flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed, still, Their wondring eyes to fill; Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre, Of fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly seede, But rather angels, or of angels breede; Yet were they bred of Somers-heat,{20} they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weede The earth did fresh array; So fresh they seem'd as day, Even as their brydale day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly till I end my song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild, All which upon those goodly birds they threw, And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus{21} waters they did seeme, When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme, That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store, Like a brydes chambre flore. Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crownd Whilst one did sing this lay, Prepar'd against that day, Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. "Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament "And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower "Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower, "Ioy may you have, and gentle hearts content "Of your loves couplement;{22} "And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love, "With her heart-quelling Sonne{23} upon you smile, "Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove "All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile "Forever to assoile.{24} "Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord, "And blessed plentie wait upon your bord{25}; "And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, "That fruitfull issue may to you afford, "Which may your foes confound "And make your ioyes redound "Upon your brydale day, which is not long." Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.