Had not the soil that bred me further done,
And fill'd part of those veins which sweetly do,
Much like the living streams of Eden, run,
Embracing such a Paradise as you;
My Muse had fail'd me in the course I ran,
But that she from your virtues took new breath,
And from your eyes such fire that, like a swan,
She in your praise can sing herself to death.
Now could I wish those golden hours unspent,
Wherein my fancy led me to the woods,
And tun'd soft lays of rural merriment,
Of shepherds' loves and never-resting floods:
For had I seen you then, though in a dream,
Those songs had slept, and you had been my theme.