My bosome friends, and in their severall wayes That are so many; let them have their bayes A From "The Muses Elisium," 1630. The Description of Elizium. PARADICE on earth is found, Though farre from vulgar sight, Which with those pleasures doth abound Where in Delights that never fade The Muses lulled be, And sit at pleasure in the shade Of many a stately tree, Which no rough Tempest makes to reele Nor their straight bodies bowes; Their lofty tops doe never feele In Groves that evermore are greene No falling leafe is there, But Philomel (of birds the Queene) In Musicke spends the yeare. The Merle upon her mertle Perch There to the Mavis sings, Who from the top of some curld Berch There Daysyes damaske every place That when proud Phabus hides his face The Pansy and the Violet here, As seeming to descend Both from one Root, a very payre, For sweetnesse yet contend; And pointing to a Pinke to tell Which bears it, it is loath To judge it, but replyes, for smell That it excels them both; Wherewith displeasde they hang their heads, So angry soone they grow, And from their odoriferous beds Their sweets at it they throw. The winter here a Summer is, No waste is made by time, Nor doth the Autumne ever misse The blossomes of the Prime. The flower that July forth doth bring, The Primrose, that puts on the Spring, The sweets for soveraignty contend And so abundant be, That to the very Earth they bend Rills rising out of every Banck In wild Meanders strayne, A And playing many a wanton pranck In Gambols and lascivious Gyres Their time they still bestow, Nor to their Fountaines none retyres Nor on their course will goe: Those Brooks with Lillies bravely deckt, So proud and wanton made, That they their courses quite neglect Faire Flora in her state to viewe That Phebus in his lofty race Oft layes aside his beames And comes to coole his glowing face Oft spreading Vines clime up the Cleeves, Their liquid purple drop, which drives Those Cleeves whose craggy sides are clad With Trees of sundry sutes Which make continuall summer glad, Even bending with their fruits; Some ripening, ready some to fall, Pomegranates, Lymons, Cytrons so There in perpetuall Summers shade Among the flowers that never fade But flourish like their wit; To whom the Nimphes upon their Lyres Tune many a curious lay And with their most melodious Quires |