With milke-white Hartes vpon an Iuorie ſled, Thou ſhalt be drawen amidſt the froſen Pooles, And ſcale the yſie mountaines lofty tops: Which with thy beautie will be soone reſolu’d.

He would have sold his part of paradise / For ready money, had he met a cope-man.

Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers, And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth;

This would be an opportune spot for a picnic.