Shame is a bad attendant to a state: _He rents his crown that fears the people's hate_. 489. TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW. Since to the country first I came I have lost my former flame: And, methinks, I not inherit, As I did, my ravish'd spirit. If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line. Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him who only can Be in prose a grateful man. 490. UPON HIMSELF. I could never love indeed; Never see mine own heart bleed: Never crucify my life, Or for widow, maid, or wife. I could never seek to please One or many mistresses: Never like their lips to swear Oil of roses still smelt there. I could never break my sleep, Fold mine arms, sob, sigh, or weep: Never beg, or humbly woo With oaths and lies, as others do. I could never walk alone; Put a shirt of sackcloth on: Never keep a fast, or pray For good luck in love that day. But have hitherto liv'd free As the air that circles me: And kept credit with my heart, Neither broke i' th' whole, or part. 491. FRESH CHEESE AND CREAM. Would ye have fresh cheese and cream? Julia's breast can give you them: And, if more, each nipple cries: To your cream here's strawberries. 492. AN ECLOGUE OR PASTORAL BETWEEN ENDYMION PORTER AND LYCIDAS HERRICK, SET AND SUNG. _End._ Ah! Lycidas, come tell me why Thy whilom merry oat By thee doth so neglected lie, And never purls a note? I prithee speak. _Lyc._ I will. _End._ Say on. _Lyc._ 'Tis thou, and only thou, That art the cause, Endymion. _End._ For love's sake, tell me how. _Lyc._ In this regard: that thou do'st play Upon another plain, And for a rural roundelay Strik'st now a courtly strain. Thou leav'st our hills, our dales, our bowers, Our finer fleeced sheep, Unkind to us, to spend thine hours Where shepherds should not keep. I mean the court: Let Latmos be My lov'd Endymion's court. _End._ But I the courtly state would see. _Lyc._ Then see it in report. What has the court to do with swains, Where Phyllis is not known? Nor does it mind the rustic strains Of us, or Corydon. Break, if thou lov'st us, this delay. _End._ Dear Lycidas, e're long I vow, by Pan, to come away And pipe unto thy song. Then Jessamine, with Florabell, And dainty Amaryllis, With handsome-handed Drosomell Shall prank thy hook with lilies.