With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the Lee; Two fairer Birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew; Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be, For love of Leda, whiter did appeare; Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare; So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the Christal Flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd 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, they say, In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede The earth did fresh aray; So fresh they seem’d as day, Even as their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete 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 yield, All which upon those goodly Birds they threw And all the Waves did strew, That like old Peneus 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 Chamber 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, Whil’st one did sing this Lay, Prepared against that Day, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.