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When now the Nymph to riper yeares gan rie, To fayre groves he took her flight; There, culling flowretts of a thouand dyes, Still did her head with tawdry girlonds dight; As oon the wreath ill orted would he quight: Ne ever did he climb the twyforkt hill, Ne could her eyen explore its lofty height, Ne did he ever tate the acred rill From Inpirations fount that ever doth ditill.

Her prightly levitie was from her Syre, Her drowy dulnes from her Mother prong; This never would allow her mind apyre, That never would allow her patience long, Thus as he lightly rovd the lawns among, High beheld her from his tarry eat, And calld her : Wylde and young Still halt Thou be, he said; and this thy fate, On Man thy leights employ, on Man that prowd ingrate.