A Hymn to Ceres
The rich-hair’d Ceres I assay to sing;
A Goddess, in whose grace the natural spring
Of serious majesty itself is seen;
And of the wedded, yet in grace still green,
Proserpina, her daughter, that displays
A beauty casting every way her rays.
All honour to thee, Goddess! Keep this town;
And take thou chief charge of my song’s renown!