Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas

Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,

And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep;

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims

To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,

Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;

And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,

Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky,

Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I,

Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,

Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,

To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain.

Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

~William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Iris at IV, i)~