Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507296" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Pastoral Sung To The King</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS</div><div style="margin:10px 0">MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we.<br>MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:<br>The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup<br>Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up:<br>And he, who used to lead the country-round,<br>Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.<br>AMBO. Let's cheer him up. SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe.<br>MIRT. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe;<br>Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play<br>To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.<br>Dear Amarillis! MON. Hark! SIL. Mark! MIRT. This<br>earth grew sweet<br>Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.<br>AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT. And here the breath<br>of kine<br>And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.<br>This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair,<br>This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.<br>SIL. Words sweet as love itself. MON. Hark!--<br>MIRT. This way she came, and this way too she went;<br>How each thing smells divinely redolent!<br>Like to a field of beans, when newly blown,<br>Or like a meadow being lately mown.<br>MON. A sweet sad passion----<br>MIRT. In dewy mornings, when she came this way,<br>Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day;<br>And when at night she folded had her sheep,<br>Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.<br>Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell,<br>The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.<br>But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither?<br>MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together.<br>MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please<br>To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs<br>as these.<br>MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure<br>The wound I suffer, never find a cure.<br>MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills<br>And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still;<br>And all the while my part shall be to weep;<br>And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep;<br>And in the rind of every comely tree<br>I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.<br>MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day<br>grows old;<br>And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.<br>CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows<br>our sorrow:--<br>But let's go steep<br>Our eyes in sleep;<br>And meet to weep<br>To-morrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Herrick">Robert Herrick</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507296" data-title="A Pastoral Sung To The King de Robert Herrick" data-description="MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS

MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we.
MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup
Of wassail now, or sets the quintel u..."></div>
</div>
</div>