Clear Ancor, on whose silver-sanded shore My soul-shrin'd saint, my fair Idea lies, O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore Thy crystal stream, refined by her eyes, Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring Gently distills his nectar-dropping showers, Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers; Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen: Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wand'ring years, And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been, And here to thee he sacrific'd his tears. Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone, And thou, sweet Ancor, art my Helicon.