"Of fair Elisa be your silver song, That blessed wight, The flower of virgins; may she flourish long In princely plight! For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot, Which Pan, the shepheards' god, of her begot: So sprung her grace Of heavenly race, No mortal blemish may her blot. "See, where she sits upon the grassy green, (O seemly sight!) Yclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen, And ermines white: Upon her head a crimson coronet, With damask roses and daffadillies set; Bay leaves between, And primroses green, Embellish the sweet violet. "Tell me, have ye seen her angelic face, Like Phœbe fair? Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace, Can you well compare? The red rose medled with the white yfere, In either cheek depeincten lively cheer: Her modest eye, Her majesty, Where have you seen the like but there? "I saw Phœbus thrust out his golden head, Upon her to gaze; But, when he saw how broad her beams did spread, It did him amaze. He blush'd to see another sun below, Ne durst again his fiery face out show. Let him, if he dare, His brightness compare With hers, to have the overthrow. "Shew thyself, Cynthia, with thy silver rays, And be not abash'd: When she the beams of her beauty displays, O how art thou dash'd! But I will not match her with Latona's seed; Such folly great sorrow to Niobe did breed. And she is a stone, And makes daily moan, Warning all other to take heed. "Pan may be proud that ever he begot Such a bellibone; And Syrinx rejoice, that ever was her lot To bear such an one. Soon as my younglings crying for the dam, To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb; She is my goddess plain, And I her shepheard's swain, Albe forswonk and forswat I am. "I see Calliope speed her to the place, Where my goddess shines; And after her the other Muses trace, With their violins. Be they not bay-branches which they do bear, All for Elisa in her hand to wear? So sweetly they play, And sing all the way, That it a heaven is to hear. "Lo, how finely the Graces can it foot To the instrument: They dancen deftly, and singen soote, In their merriment. Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the dance even? Let that room to my Lady be yeven She shall be a Grace, To fill the fourth place, And reign with the rest in heaven. "And whither runs this bevy of ladies bright, Ranged in a row? They be all Ladies of the Lake behight, That unto her go. Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of all, Of olive branches bears a coronal: Olives be for peace When wars do surcease: Such for a princess be principal.