That Phyllis kindles, aught of Alcon’s worth,
Or Codrus’ ill-temper, then begin;
Tityrus meanwhile will watch the grazing kids.
Mop. Ay, I will sing the song which t’other day
On a green beech’s bark I cut; and scored
The music as I wrote. Hear that, and bid
Amyntas vie with me.
Men. As willow lithe
Yields to pale olive; as to crimson beds
Of roses yields the lowly lavender,