To make me pine with plenty,
With shadows store, and nothing more, [p. 28.]
Your substance is so dainty;
A fruitless tree is like to thee,
Being but a kissing lover,
With leaves joyn fruit, or else be mute;
A little o’ th’ t’on with t’other.
Sharp joyn’d with flat, no mirth to that;
A low note and a higher,
Where Mean and Base keeps time and place,