Meanwhile what do we?
We have no sport when Pyrrha is away.
Our game is broken. Come, a thought, a thought!
Hath none a thought?
Ch.We have never built the bower.
Deid. Ye idled gathering flowers. Now ’tis too late.
Ch. Let us play ball.
Deid.The sun is still so high.881
I shall go feed my doves.
(Re-enter one of Chorus.)