Aglaia: a Pastoral

Sylvan Muses, can ye sing     Of the beauty of the Spring?     Have ye seen on earth that sun     That a heavenly course hath run?     Have ye lived to see those eyes     Where the pride of beauty lies?     Have ye heard that heavenly voice     That may make Love's heart rejoice?     Have ye seen Aglaia, she     Whom the world may joy to see?     If ye have not seen all these,     Then ye do but labour leese;     While ye tune your pipes to play     But an idle roundelay;     And in sad Discomfort's den     Everyone go bite her pen;     That she cannot reach the skill     How to climb that blessed hill     Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,     Where exceedings do excell,     And in simple truth confess     She is that fair shepherdess     To whom fairest flocks a-field     Do their service duly yield:     On whom never Muse hath gazd     But in musing is amazd;     Where the honour is too much     For their highest thoughts to touch;     Thus confess, and get ye gone     To your places every one;     And in silence only speak     When ye find your speech too weak.     Blessd be Aglaia yet,     Though the Muses die for it;     Come abroad, ye blessd Muses,     Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,     When she would command a creature     In the honour of Love's nature,     For the sweet Aglaia fair     All to sweeten all the air,     Is abroad this blessd day;     Haste ye, therefore, come away:     And to kill Love's maladies     Meet her with your melodies.         Flora hath been all about,     And hath brought her wardrobe out;     With her fairest, sweetest flowers,     All to trim up all your bowers.         Bid the shepherds and their swains     See the beauty of their plains;     And command them with their flocks     To do reverence on the rocks;     Where they may so happy be     As her shadow but to see:     Bid the birds in every bush     Not a bird to be at hush:     But to sit, and chirp, and sing     To the beauty of the Spring:     Call the sylvan nymphs together,     Bid them bring their musicks hither.     Trees their barky silence break,     Crack yet, though they cannot speak     Bid the purest, whitest swan     Of her feathers make her fan;     Let the hound the hare go chase;     Lambs and rabbits run at base;     Flies be dancing in the sun,     While the silk-worm's webs are spun;     Hang a fish on every hook     As she goes along the brook;     So with all your sweetest powers     Entertain her in your bowers;     Where her ear may joy to hear     How ye make your sweetest quire;     And in all your sweetest vein     Still Aglaia strike her strain;     But when she her walk doth turn,     Then begin as fast to mourn;     All your flowers and garlands wither     Put up all your pipes together;     Never strike a pleasing strain     Till she come abroad again.