Not Iris in Her Pride

Not Iris in her pride and bravery Adorns her arch with such variety; Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night Appear so fair and beautiful in sight, As do these fields and groves and sweetest bowers Bestrewed and decked with parti-coloured flowers. Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide, That at the bottom doth in silence slide, The water-flowers and lilies on the banks Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks; Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be, The primrose and the purple hyacinth, The dainty violet and the wholesome minth, The double-daisy and the cowslip (Queen) Of summer flowers) do over-peer the green; And round about the valley as ye pass, Ye may not see, for peeping flowers, the grass.