Sweet are thy amorous precincts, Cher!
Spangled with flowers thy meadows are;
Fair as of old thy tangled woods
And clear and deep thy gushing floods.
Yon stately pile is fresh and gay,
As time had cast his scythe away:
Since unchaste Dian drew her bow,
With hound and horn at Chenonceaux.
Excerpt from an anonymous poem
