_Amar._ But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told Those learned men brought incense, myrrh and gold From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet. _Mirt._ 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king A neat, though not so great an offering. _Amar._ A garland for my gift shall be Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet; yet all less sweet than he. _Amin._ And I will bear, along with you, Leaves dropping down the honeyed dew, With oaten pipes as sweet as new. _Mirt._ And I a sheep-hook will bestow, To have his little kingship know, As he is prince, he's shepherd too. _Chor._ Come, let's away, and quickly let's be dress'd, And quickly give--_the swiftest grace is best_. And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe, then back to country pleasures. _White_, favourable. 214. TO THE LARK. Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say: Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet-singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say, Amen. And if I prove Bless'd in my love, Then thou shalt be High-priest to me, At my return, To incense burn; And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice. 215. THE BUBBLE. A SONG. To my revenge and to her desperate fears Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears. In the wild air when thou hast rolled about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out. Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye, then glare Like to a dreadful comet in the air: Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight For thy revenge to be most opposite, Then, like a globe or ball of wild-fire, fly, And break thyself in shivers on her eye. 216. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS. You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood. You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine. You are like balm enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet. You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song. 217. THE BLEEDING HAND; OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID.