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Naiis.
Amongst you all let us see
Who ist opposes mee,
Come on the proudest she
To answere my dittye.

Cloe.
Why Naiis, that am I,
Who dares thy pride defie?
And that we soone shall try
Though thou be witty.

Naiis.
Cloe I scorne my Rime
Should observe feet or time,
Now I fall, then I clime,
What is't I dare not.

Cloe.
Give thy Invention wing,
And let her flert and fling,
Till downe the Rocks she ding,
For that I care not.

Naiis.
This presence delights me,
My freedome invites me,
The Season excytes me,
In Rime to be merry.

Cloe.
And I beyond measure,
Am ravisht with pleasure,
To answer each Ceasure,
Untill thou beist weary.

Naiis.
Behold the Rosye Dawne,
Rises in Tinfild Lawne,
And smiling seemes to fawne,
Upon the mountaines.

Cloe.
Awaked from her Dreames
Shooting foorth goulden Beames
Dansing upon the Streames
Courting the Fountaines.

Naiis.
These more then sweet Showrets,
Intice up these Flowrets,
To trim up our Bowrets,
Perfuming our Coats.

Cloe.
Whilst the Birds billing
Each one with his Dilling
The thickets still filling
With Amorous Noets.

Naiis.
The Bees up in hony rould,
More then their thighes can hould,
Lapt in their liquid gould,
Their Treasure us bringing.

Cloe.
To these Rillets purling
Upon the stones Curling,
And oft about wherling,
Dance tow'ard their springing.

Naiis.
The Wood-Nimphes sit singing,
Each Grove with notes ringing
Whilst fresh Ver is flinging,
Her Bounties abroad.

Cloe.
So much as the Turtle,
Upon the low Mertle,
To the meads fertle,
Her Cares doth unload.

Naiis.
Nay 'tis a world to see,
In every bush and Tree,
The Birds with mirth and glee,
Woo'd as they woe.

Cloe.
The Robin and the Wren,
Every Cocke with his Hen,
Why should not we and men,
Doe as they doe.

Naiis.
The Fairies are hopping,
The small Flowers cropping,
And with dew dropping,
Skip thorow the Greaves.

Cloe.
At Barly-breake they play
Merrily all the day,
At night themselves they lay
Upon the soft leaves.

Naiis.
The gentle winds sally
Upon every Valley,
And many times dally
And wantonly sport.

Cloe.
About the fields tracing,
Each other in chasing,
And often imbracing,
In amorous sort.

Naiis.
And Eccho oft doth tell
Wondrous things from her Cell,
As her what chance befell,
Learning to prattle.

Cloe.
And now she sits and mocks
The Shepherds and their flocks,
And the Heards from the Rocks
Keeping their Cattle.