When my off'ring next I make, Be thy hand the hallowed cake, And thy breast the altar whence Love may smell the frankincense.

420. TO SYCAMORES.

I'm sick of love, O let me lie Under your shades to sleep or die!

Either is welcome, so I have Or here my bed, or here my grave.

Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep Time with the tears that I do weep?

Say, have ye sense, or do you prove What crucifixions are in love?

I know ye do, and that's the why You sigh for love as well as I.

421. A PASTORAL SUNG TO THE KING: MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS.

_Mon._ Bad are the times. _Sil._ And worse than they are we.

_Mon._ Troth, bad are both; worse fruit and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. _Sil._ None crowns the cup Of wa.s.sail now or sets the quintell up; And he who us'd to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes grief-drown'd.

_Ambo._ Let's cheer him up. _Sil._ Behold him weeping-ripe.

_Mir._ Ah! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay.

Dear Amaryllis! _Mon._ Hark! _Sil._ Mark! _Mir._ This earth grew sweet Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet.

_Ambo._ Poor pitied youth! _Mir._ And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.

This flock of wool and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.

_Sil._ Words sweet as love itself. Montano, hark!

_Mir._ This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent!

Like to a field of beans when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown.

_Mon._ A sweet-sad pa.s.sion---- _Mir._ In dewy mornings when she came this way Sweet bents would bow to give my love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and, closing, sigh and weep.

Besides (ay me!) since she went hence to dwell, The voices' daughter ne'er spake syllable.

But she is gone. _Sil._ Mirtillo, tell us whither.

_Mir._ Where she and I shall never meet together.

_Mon._ Forfend it Pan, and, Pales, do thou please To give an end. _Mir._ To what? _Sil._ Such griefs as these.

_Mir._ Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure.

_Mon._ Love for thy sake will bring her to these hills And dales again. _Mir._ No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep, And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep: And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.

_Mon._ Set with the sun thy woes. _Sil._ The day grows old, And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.

_Chor._ The shades grow great, but greater grows our sorrow; But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep, And meet to weep To-morrow.

_Quintell_, quintain or tilting board.

_Bents_, gra.s.ses.

_Pales_, the G.o.ddess of sheepfolds.

422. THE POET LOVES A MISTRESS, BUT NOT TO MARRY.

I do not love to wed, Though I do like to woo; And for a maidenhead I'll beg and buy it too.

I'll praise and I'll approve Those maids that never vary; And fervently I'll love, But yet I would not marry.

I'll hug, I'll kiss, I'll play, And, c.o.c.k-like, hens I'll tread, And sport it any way But in the bridal bed.

For why? that man is poor Who hath but one of many, But crown'd he is with store That, single, may have any.

Why then, say, what is he, To freedom so unknown, Who, having two or three, Will be content with one?

425. THE WILLOW GARLAND.

A willow garland thou did'st send Perfum'd, last day, to me, Which did but only this portend-- I was forsook by thee.

Since so it is, I'll tell thee what, To-morrow thou shalt see Me wear the willow; after that, To die upon the tree.

As beasts unto the altars go With garlands dress'd, so I Will, with my willow-wreath, also Come forth and sweetly die.

427. A HYMN TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW.

'Twas not love's dart, Or any blow Of want, or foe, Did wound my heart With an eternal smart;

But only you, My sometimes known Companion, My dearest Crew, That me unkindly slew.

May your fault die, And have no name In books of fame; Or let it lie Forgotten now, as I.

We parted are And now no more, As heretofore, By jocund Lar Shall be familiar.

But though we sever, My Crew shall see That I will be Here faithless never, But love my Clipseby ever.

430. EMPIRES.

Empires of kings are now, and ever were, As Sall.u.s.t saith, coincident to fear.

431. FELICITY QUICK OF FLIGHT.

Every time seems short to be That's measured by felicity; But one half-hour that's made up here With grief, seems longer than a year.

436. THE CROWD AND COMPANY.

In holy meetings there a man may be One of the crowd, not of the company.

438. POLICY IN PRINCES.

That princes may possess a surer seat, 'Tis fit they make no one with them too great.

440. UPON THE NIPPLES OF JULIA'S BREAST.

Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white?

Or else a cherry, double grac'd, Within a lily centre plac'd?

Or ever mark'd the pretty beam A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream?

Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl and orient too?