"Sing his praises that doth keep Our Flocks from harm, Pan the Father of our Sheep, And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilest the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the Musick with her sound.Pan, O great God Pan, to thee Thus do we sing: Thou that keep’st us chaste and free As the young spring, Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place Day doth unyoke."