Phœbus! Euen the Swann from forth her wings, (Jumping her proyning-banck) thee sweetly sings, By bright Peneus, whirle-pit-making-streames. Thee, that thy Lute; mak'st sound so to thy Beames. Thee, first and last, the sweete-voic't singer, still Sings; for thy songs-all-songs-transcending skill. Thy Pleasure then; shall my song still supply: And so salutes thee, King of Poësie.