EDMUND SPENSER
That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long.
Sweete Themmes' runnc softly, till I end my Song.
Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the Christal Flood,
Whom when they sawc, they stood amazed still,
Their wondring eyes to fill,
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,
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 seemc
To be begot of any earthly Scede,
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 frebh they seem'd as day,
Even as their Brydalc day, which was not long
Swccte Themmes' runne softly, till I end my Song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, All which upon those goodly Birds they threw And all the Waves did strew,
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