I dare not speake of that thrise holy hill,
Which spread with siluer lillyes lyes,
Nor of those violettes, which voyde vaynes fulfill,
Nor of that maze on loues hill toppe,
These secrets must not be surueyde with eyes,
No creature may those flowers croppe,
Nor bath in that cleare fountaine,
Where none but Phoebe, with chast virgines wash,
In bottome of that sacred mountaine:
But whether now? thy verses ouerlash.