On Clarastella singing to the Eccho at Aythorn Church in Kent

'Twas when the Sun had purpled all the West,
And newly stole into his Rosie nest
To bring the Tartars morn; our Nymph was grown
Weary with walking, and did lay her down
Upon the tender trefoiles, glad to yield
Unto so soft a pressure, in a field
Neer Aythorns holy Church, to satisfie
Our joynt requests with her sweet harmonie;
In a serene stil Summers evening,
Fair Stella did exalt her voyce and sing.

And as the torrent of her melodie
Did genly flow in new varietie
Of melting streins, in whose swoln rapsodies
Shee cool'd the dayes heat, and thus fann'd the skies,
Her Zephyre breath no sooner whisper'd to
The sacred walls, but streight was answer'd too;
As if her Angel voyce had eccho'd bin
By the blest musick of some Cherubin:
Whilst from the Church the listning Spirit there
Through envie of her phansies chirp't to her,
And with distinguisht tones in ev'ry mood
And skilful accent made her murmurs good.
'Twas in the Church this Rival dwelt; 'tis there
A better Eccho wil our sighings hear
And answer too, though ne'r so softly groand:
(Where live thou stil in this thy sphere enthron'd)

Soon as Shee did perceive her Art out-done
By the invisible division
Of the Reporters voyce, she stretcht her throat
And warbling daunced on a treble noat
In loftier measures. These th'Eccho likewise sent
More perfect back, than from her first they went.

Shame now 'twixt grief and anger plac'd, did raise
Our Stella, and provoke to second laies:
One whiles she soars like the morns Lark on high,
As with exalted voyce shee'd pierce the skie,
Then with a sullen flat and deeper base,
As she would marrie her Immortal laies
With her diviner Odes, she humbly dwels
O th' Gamut. Th'Eccho too this lesson spels,
And thus repeating descants on each strein
Much more distinctly relish'd and more plain.
How have I lov'd Church-musick e'r since I
First there heard this so heav'nly harmonie?

Thus by alternate strivings as they had
Ev'n sung the Sun asleep, and made us sad
In their behalf, scarce knowing which t'admire,
And count the Mistresse of this holy Quire:
Our Stella did attempt it once again
To get the conquest; but alas! in vain
She striving tir'd, and tir'd was fain to yield,
While the Church-Saint was heard the last i'th' field.