Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world / Like one great garden show'd, / And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, / Rare sunrise flow'd.

I am going to my own hearth-stone, / Bosomed in yon green hills alone,

I prefer tea to coffee.

But afterwards she gan him soft to shrieve, And wooe with fair intreatie, to disclose Which of the nymphes his heart so sore did mieve: