And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks，
By shallow rivers， to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies，
A cap of flowers， and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
A grown made of the finest wool，
Which from our pretty lambs we pull，
Fair lin’ed slippers for the cold，
With buckles of the purest gold.