ls,
Sweet as the vestry of the oracles.
I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice but a breathing space,
The passive air such odour then assum'd,
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

415. TO BACCHUS, A CANTICLE.

Whither dost thou whorry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,
Here and there a fresh love is.
That doth like me, this doth please,
Thus a thousand mistresses
I have now; yet I alone,
Having all, enjoy not one.

_Whorry_, carry rapidly.

416. THE LAWN.

Would I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin?
It should be only in my Julia's skin,
Which so betrays her blood as we discover
The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.

417. THE FRANKINCENSE.

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 wassail 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 swe