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”.]