208. THE PRESENT; OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE:
Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee,
And say thou bring'st this honey-bag from me;
When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed,
Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste;
If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum,
Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.
209. TO THE WATER-NYMPHS DRINKING AT THE FOUNTAIN
Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this—
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.
210. HOW SPRINGS CAME FIRST
These springs were maidens once that loved,
But lost to that they most approved:
My story tells, by Love they were
Turn'd to these springs which we see here:
The pretty whimpering that they make,
When of the banks their leave they take,
Tells ye but this, they are the same,
In nothing changed but in their name.