PROTEUS

I, now, the heights of Neptune's honours shine, And all the glories of his greater style Are read, reflected in this happiest I'll. Where longings, That last! There is no sickness, nor no old age known To man, nor any grief that he dares own. There is no hunger there, nor envy of state. Nor least ambition in the Magistrate. But all are even-harted, open, free, And what one is, another strives to be. Stesichorus there, too, That Linus, and old Orpheus does outdo To wonder. He will look in, and see the airs be quick, And that the times be true. Then, Up, with their notes, they raise the Prince of Men. That spring the banks along, Do move their heads unto that undersong. Come noble Nymphs, and do not hide The joys, for which you so provide: Why do you wear the silkworms toils. Or glory in the shellfish spoils; Or strive to show the grains of Over That you have gathered on the shore, whereof to make a stock To grafted the greener Emerald on, Or any better watered stone, Why do you smell of Ambergris, Of which was formed Neptune's Niece, The Queen of Love: unless you can Like Seaborn Venus love a Man? Although we wish the glory still might last Of such a night, and for the causes passed: Yet now, great Lord of waters, and of Isles, Give Proteus leave to turn unto his wiles.