Come, blessed bird

Come, come, blessed bird,

and with thy sugared relish

help our declining choir now to embellish,

For Bonnyboots, for Bonnyboots,

that so aloft would fetch it,

Ohe is dead and none of us can reach it.

Then tune to us,

sweet bird, thy shrill recorder,

and Elpin, and I, and Dorus,

for fault of better,

will serve in the chorus:

Begin and we will follow thee in order,

Then sang the woodborn minstrel of Diana:

Long live fair Oriana.