Yet in this Isle she raignes as blessed, And euery one at her doth wonder, (20) And in my eares still fond fame whispers Cinthia shall be Ceres Mistres, But first my Carre shall riue in sunder. Helpe Phæbus helpe, my fall is suddaine: Cinthia, Cinthia must be Soueraigne.
This Song was sung before her Maiestie, at
Bissam, the Lady Russels, in prograce.
The Authors name unknowne to me.
¶ A Pastorall Ode to an honourable friend . +
A S to the blooming prime, Bleake Winter being fled: From compasse of the clime, Where Nature lay as dead, (5) The Riuers dull’d with time, The greene leaues withered, Fresh Zephyri (the Westerne brethren) be: +So th’honour of your fauour is to me.