_Ch._ Talk not of love; all pray, but few souls pay me.
_Ph._ I'll give thee vows and tears. _Ch._ Can tears pay scores
For mending sails, for patching boat and oars?
_Ph._ I'll beg a penny, or I'll sing so long
Till thou shalt say I've paid thee with a song.
_Ch._ Why then begin; and all the while we make
Our slothful passage o'er the Stygian Lake,
Thou and I'll sing to make these dull shades merry,
Who else with tears would doubtless drown my ferry.

_Fond_, foolish.
_She's now beneath_, her mother Zeuxippe?

733. A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY.

A little saint best fits a little shrine,
A little prop best fits a little vine:
As my small cruse best fits my little wine.

A little seed best fits a little soil,
A little trade best fits a little toil:
As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread,
A little garland fits a little head:
As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire,
A little chapel fits a little choir:
As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat,
A little lead best fits a little float:
As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly,
As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

734. UPON THE ROSES IN JULIA'S BOSOM.

Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have
Within the bosom of my love your grave.
Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known,
Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone.

735. MAIDS' NAYS ARE NOTHING.

Maids' nays are nothing, they are shy
But to desire what they deny.

736. THE SMELL OF THE SACRIFICE.

The gods require the thighs
Of beeves for sacrifice;
Which roasted, we the steam
Must sacrifice to them,
Who though they do not eat,
Yet love the smell of meat.

737. LOVERS: HOW THEY COME AND PART.

A gyges' ring they bear about them still,
To be, and not seen when and where they will.
They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
They fall like dew, but make no noise at all.
So silently they one to th' other come,
As colours steal into the pear or plum,
And air-like, leave no pression to be seen
Where'er they met