No More Learning

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.