Phyllis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair,—

Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere,—

Phyllis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt

have this,

Or"—Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds!

—"a kiss?"

Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night

long,

A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's

evening song.

A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a

crimson rose!

Corydon made his choice and took—Well, which do

you suppose?