III.

Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their owne blest beauties bring: They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers That drink the deaw of life, whose deathlesse spring, Nor Sirian flame nor Borean frost deflowers: From whence heav'n-labouring bees with busie wing, Suck hidden sweets, which well-digested proves Immortall hony for the hive of loves.