Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth [ 180 ]

Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run

Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix

And nourish all things, let your ceasless change

Varie to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise [ 185 ]

From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey,

Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold,

In honour to the Worlds great Author rise,

Whether to deck with Clouds th uncolourd skie,

Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, [ 190 ]

Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,

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