Page 1100 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

Enter Iris.

IRIS
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas [60]
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, were live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at they best betrims, [65]
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom-groves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air; − the queen o’ th’ sky, [70]
Whose wat’ry arch and messenger am I,

Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,

Juno descends.
Here, on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: − her peacocks fly amain: [75]

Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter Ceres.

CERES
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 [80]
My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down,
Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen

Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green?

IRIS
A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate [85]
On the blest lovers.