Thyrsis's Praise to His Mistress

On a hill that grac'd the plaine Thyrsis sate, a comely swaine, Comelier swaine ne'er grac'd a hill: Whilst his flocke, that wandred nie, Cropt the green grasse busilie; Thus he tun'd his oaten quill:

Ver hath made the pleasant field Many several odours yeeld, Odors aromatical: From faire Astra's cherrie lip, Sweeter smells for ever skip, They in pleasing passen all.

Leavie groves now mainely ring, With each sweet bird's sonneting, Notes that make the ecchos long: But when Astra tunes her voice, All the mirthful birds rejoice, And are listening to her song.

Fairely spreads the damaske rose, Whose rare mixture doth disclose Beauties, pencills cannot faine. Yet, if Astra passe the bush, Roses have been seen to blush. She doth all their beauties staine.

Phoebus shining bright in skie, Gilds the floods, heates mountaines hie With his beames all quick'ning fire: Astra's eyes (most sparkling ones) Strikes a heat in hearts of stones, And enflames them with desire.

Fields are blest with slowrie wreath, Ayre is blest when she doth breath, Birds make happy ev'ry grove, She each bird when she doth sing, Phoebus' heate to Earth doth bring, She makes marble fall in love.

Those blessinges of the Earth we swaines do call, Astra can blesse those blessings, Earth and all.