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 Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,

And all the upper world lay in a trance.

Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;

And little gales that from the green leaf swept

Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.

As loath to waken any singing bird.

a pleasant grove or such like place,

Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:

There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:

Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:

The walks there mounting up by small degrees,

The gravel and the green so equal lie,

It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:

Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,

Arising from the infinite repair

Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,

(As if it were another Paradise)

So please the smelling sense, that you are fain

Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.

There the small birds with their harmonious notes

Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:

For in her face a many dimples show.

And often skips as it did dancing go:

Here further down an over-arched alley,

That from a hill goes winding in a valley,

You spy at end thereof a standing lake,

Where some ingenious artist strives to make

The water (brought in turning pipes of lead

Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)

To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,

In singing well their own set madrigal.

This with no small delight retains your ear,

And makes you think none blest but who live there.

Then in another place the fruits that be

In gallant clusters decking each good tree,