Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, 55
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, 60
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, 65
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, 70
Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
*[Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. “The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900”.]