Classic Poem

A Paradise on earth is found,
Though far from vulgar sight,
Which with those pleasures doth abound
That it Elizium hight.

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 reel
Nor their straight bodies bows,
Their lofty tops do never feel
The weight of winter's snows.

In groves that evermore are green
No falling leaf is there,
But Philomel (of birds the queen)
In music spends the year.

The merle upon her myrtle perch
There to the mavis sings,
Who from the top of some curled birch
Those notes redoubled rings.

There daisies damask every place
Nor once their beauties lose,
That when proud Phoebus hides his face
Themselves they scorn to close.

The pansy and the violet here,
As seeming to descend
Both from one root, a very pair,
For sweetness yet contend

And, pointing to a pink to tell
Which bears it, it is loath
To judge it; but replies, for smell
That it exceeds them both;

Wherewith displeased they hang their heads
So angry soon 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 autumn ever miss
The blossoms of the prime.

The flower that July forth doth bring
In April here is seen,
The primrose that puts on the spring
In July decks each green.

The sweets for sovereignty contend
And so abundant be,
That to the very earth they lend
And bark of every tree.

Rills rising out of every bank
In wild meanders strain,
And playing many a wanton prank
Upon the speckled plain,

In gambols and lascivious gyres
Their time they still bestow,
Nor to the fountaines none retires;
Nor on their course will go

Those brooks with lilies bravely decked,
So proud and wanton made
That they their courses quite neglect,
And seem as though they stayed

Fair Flora in her state to view
Which through these lilies looks,
Or as those lilies leaned to show
Their beauties to the brooks.

That Phoebus in his lofty race
Oft lays aside his beams
And comes to cool his glowing face
In these delicious streams.

Oft spreading vines climb up the cleeves
Whose ripened clusters there
Their purple liquid drop, which drives
A vintage through the year.

Those cleeves whose craggy sides are clad
With trees of sundry suits,
Which make continual summer glad,
Even bending with the fruits,

Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossomed, some to bloom,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich, princely room:

Pomegranates, lemons, citrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaves in number that outgo
Nor roomth will them allow.

There in perpetual summer's shade,
Apollo's prophets sit,
Among the flowers that never fade,
But flourish like their wit;

To whom the nymphs upon their lyres,
Tune many a curious lay,
And with their most melodious choirs
Make short the longest day.

The thrice three virgins heavenly clear,
Their trembling timbrels sound,
Whilst the three comely Graces there
Dance many a dainty round,

Decay nor age there nothing knows;
There is continual youth,
As time on plant or creatures grows
So still their strength reneweth.

The poets' paradise this is,
To which but few can come;
The Muses' only bower of bliss
Their dear Elizium.

Here happy souls (their blessed bowers,
Free from the rude resort
Of beastly people) spend the hours,
In harmless mirth and sport.

Then on to the Elizian plains
Apollo doth invite you
Where he provides with pastoral strains,
In Nymphals to delight you.