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Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine Sprung of old Anchies line May thy brimmed waves for this Their full tribute never mie From a thouand pettie rills, That tumble downe the nowie hills: Summer drouth, or inged aire Never corch thy trees faire Nor wet Octobers torrent flood Thy molten crytall fill with mudde, May thy billowes rowle a hoare The beryll, and the golden ore, May thy loftie head be crown'd With many a tower, and terrae round, And here and there thy banks upon With groves of myrrhe, and cinnamon.

Come Ladie while heaven lends us grace, Let us fly this cured place, Lest the orcerer us intice With ome other new device. Not a wat, or needlee ound Till we come to holyer ground, I hall be your faithfull guide Through this gloomie covert wide, And not many furlongs thence Is your Fathers reidence, Where this night are met in tate Many a freind to gratulate Rh