Some unawakened lily’s cup,
Each swollen to fall, or e’er begin
The stalks to dress themselves aright:
For yet the sun, that hasteth up,
Pricks not their delicate stems,
Nor spreads the crimson petals bright:
That were an image of the gems
Which in this casket lie, a pair
Fit for thine ears to wear.
Pen. I thank thee, good Peisander; set it down