John Fletcher

Hymn to Pan

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,
Whilst the hollow murmuring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee
    Thus do we sing! 
Thou that keep'st us chaste and free
    As the young spring; 
Ever be thy honor spoke,
From that place the morn is broke,
To that place day doth unyoke!