Now, all pomp, the Moorish hero

"Now, all pomp, the Moorish hero, Whilst his robes sweet perfumes throw, Lays aside his crooked sabre, Hangs on high his moony bow. His hoarse tambours, hoarse no longer, Seem like amorous turtle-doves; And his pendants streaming favours, Favours given by her he loves. She goes forth with bosom naked, Loosely flow her golden locks; If she stays them, 'tis with jasmines, Chains them, 'tis with pinks and stocks. All things serve their gentle passion, Every thing fresh joy assumes; Flattering, if not babbling breezes, Stir their robes and toss their plumes. Green fields yield them mossy carpets, Trees pavilions, flowers the vales, Peaceful fountains golden slumber, Music love-lorn nightingales. Trunks their bark, whose tablets better Keep their names than plates of brass; Better far than ivory pages, Than the marble's sculptured mass. Not a beech but bears some cipher, Tender word, or amorous text; If one vale sounds Angelina, Angelina sounds the next."