John Lyly (1555?–1606)

PAN’S Syrinx was a girl indeed,

Though now she’s turned into a reed;

From that dear reed Pan’s pipe does come,

A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;

Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can

So chant it as the pipe of Pan;

Cross-gartered swains and dairy girls,

With faces smug and round as pearls,

When Pan’s shrill pipe begins to play,

With dancing wear out night and day;

The bagpipe’s drone his hum lays by,

When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy;

His minstrelsy! O base! this quill,

Which at my mouth with wind I fill,

Puts me in mind, though her I miss,

That still my Syrinx’ lips I kiss.