Clear Ancor, on whose silver-sanded shore
 My soul-shrin'd saint, my fair Idea lies,
 O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore
 Thy crystal stream, refined by her eyes,
 Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring
 Gently distills his nectar-dropping showers,
 Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing
 Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers;
 Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen:
 Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wand'ring years,
 And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been,
 And here to thee he sacrific'd his tears.
 Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,
 And thou, sweet Ancor, art my Helicon.