Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis;— Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames. His budding beard is riper Say, by a week. Well, Laurence, shall we sing? LAURENCE. Yes, if you will. But, ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo to him accounted First in the song—a Pipe I will impart; This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted, Amber and foam—a miracle of art. LAURENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, Grant me a soft alliterative song. FRANK. Me, too, O Muse. And when the umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAURENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally purls, No; in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, Not in the sham and stucco of a square; No; on a June-lawn to the water sloping Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. LAURENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited Back from the brows, imperially curled; Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid Holding the roof that covers in a world. FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,— Blythe as a bird, new risen from the corn. LAURENCE. Best is the song with music interwoven; Mine’s a musician, musical at heart, Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven— Sways to the right coquetting of Mozart. FRANK. Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees; Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in “Sir Roger” danced among the trees. LAURENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, Light as a snowflake, settles on your arm. FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,— Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. LAURENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her Round with so delicate divinity, that men Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger Bend to the Goddess, manifest again. FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, Cynics to boot, I know the children run Seeing her come, for naught that I discover Save that she brings the summer and the sun. LAURENCE.