Clash your cymbals, maids, to--day.
Chaunt the praise of Cynthia.
You, her virgins, yokeless, free,
Young Time's choice, his brides--to--be.
Nymphs in white, who hand in hand
Next to her high altar stand,
Take your timbrels, strike your strings;
Tune them to Love's clamourings.
Heralds be of her your fairest,
Her of rarities the rarest.
Instant all her laud rehearse,