"PAN: Pan’s Syrinx was a Girle indeed, Though now shee’s turn’d into a Reed, From that deare Reed 𝘗𝘢𝘯’𝘴 Pipe doth come, A Pipe that strikes Apollo dumbe; Nor Flute, nor Lute, nor Gitterne can So chant it, as the Pipe of Pan; Cross-gartred Swaines, and Dairie girles, With faces smug, and round as Pearles, When Pans shrill Pipe begins to play, With dancing weare out Night and Day: The Bag-pipes Drone his Hum layes by, When Pan sounds up his Minstrelsie, His Minstrelsie! O Base! this Quill Which at my mouth with winde I fill, Puts me in mind, though Her I misse, That still my Syrinx lips I kisse."