Poppies thy lips, thy ways none knows how sweet!
MILO.
Who dreamed what subtle strains our bumpkin wrought?
How shone the artist in each measured verse!
Fie on the beard that I have grown for naught!
Mark, lad, these lines by glorious Lytierse.
[Sings]
O rich in fruit and cornblade: be this field
Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield!
Bind the sheaves, reapers: lest one, passing, say—