My sheep crop honeysuckle bloom, while all around them blows
In clusters rich the jasmine, as brave as any rose.
COMETAS.
I scorn my maid; for when she took my cushat, she did not
Draw with both hands my face to hers and kiss me on the spot.
LACON.
I love my love, and hugely: for, when I gave my flute,
I was rewarded with a kiss, a loving one to boot.
COMETAS.
Lacon, the nightingale should scarce be challenged by the jay,