A PASTORALL SUNG TO THE KING by ROBERT HERRICK

Mon. Bad are the times. Sil. And wors then they are we.
Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of Shepheards fail. Sil. None crowns the cup
Of Wassaile now, or sets the quintell up:
And He, who us'd to leade the Country-round,
Youthfull Mirtillo, Here he comes, Griefdrownd.
Ambo. Lets cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping ripe.
Mirt. Ah! Amarillis, farewell mirth and pipe;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play,
To these smooth Lawns, my mirthfull Roundelay.
Dear Amarillis! Mon. Hark! Sil. mark: Mir. this earth grew sweet
Where, Amarillis, Thou didst set thy feet.
Ambo. Poor pittied youth! Mir. And here the breth of kine
And sheep, grew more sweet, by that breth of Thine,
This flock of wooll, and this rich lock of hair,
This ball of Cow-slips, these she gave me here.
Sil. Words sweet as Love it self. Montano, Hark.
Mirt. 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 medow being lately mown.
Mont. A sweet-sad passion--
Mirt. In dewie-mornings when she came this way,
Sweet Bents wode bow, to give my Love the day:
And when at night, she folded had her sheep,
Daysies wo'd shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell,
The voices Daughter near'r spake syllable.
But she is gone. Sil. Mirtillo, tell us whether,
Mirt. Where she and I shall never meet together.
Mont. Fore-fend it Pan, and Pales do thou please
To give an end: Mir. To what? Scil. such griefs as these.
Mirt. Never, O never! Still I may endure
The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
Mont. 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 weepe;
And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep:
And in the Rind of every comely tree
Ile carve thy name, and in that name kisse thee:
Mont. Set with the Sunne, thy woes: Scil. The day grows old:
And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
Chor. The shades grow great; but greater growes our sorrow,
But lets go steepe
Our eyes in sleepe;
And meet to weepe
To morrow.

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