THENOT.
Colin, my dear, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance?
Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing,
Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance.
Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance
Among the shepheards' swains may aye remain,
Whether thee list thy loved lass advance,
Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein.
COL. Thenot, now n'is the time of merrimake,