Not Iris in her pride and bravery 
Adorns her arch with such variety; 
Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night 
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight, 
As do these fields and groves and sweetest bowers 
Bestrewed and decked with parti-coloured flowers. 
Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide, 
That at the bottom doth in silence slide, 
The water-flowers and lilies on the banks 
Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks; 
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, 
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be, 
The primrose and the purple hyacinth, 
The dainty violet and the wholesome minth, 
The double-daisy and the cowslip (Queen) 
Of summer flowers) do over-peer the green; 
And round about the valley as ye pass, 
Ye may not see, for peeping flowers, the grass.