Classic Poem

Forth from greene Thetis' bowers
The morne arose; her face
A wreath of rayes did grace,
Her haire rain'd pearles, her hand and lap dropt flowres.
Led by the pleasant sight
Of those so rich and odoriferous showres,
Each shepheard thither came, and nimphes bright:
Entranc'd they stood; I did to Chloris turne,
And saw in her more grace than in the morne.