Epigram 39 (Wotton my little Beere dwels on a hill,)

Wotton my little Beere dwels on a hill,
Vnderwhose foot the siluer Trowt doth swim
The Trowt siluer without and goold within,
Bibbing cleere Nectar, which doth aye destill
From Nulams lowe head; there the birds are singing
And there the partiall Sunnne still giues occasion,
To the sweete dewes eternall generation:
There is greene ioy and pleasure euer springing,
O iron age of men, O time of rue.
Shame ye not that all things are goold but you?