Note 288 — Chapter XII

Ten apples of fine gold, elect and rare, Which hung for thee, and softest perfume shed, Like unto that which from thy bosom fair Doth often breathe, whence Love is nourishéd, Humbly I offer; and if thou shalt care, To-morrow with the dawn yon fields I'll tread, My great desire some little to requite, Plucking another ten for thy delight. Also an olive cup, where still doth cling That pure perfume it borrowed from the lathe, Where in the midst a fair youth ruining Conducts the day, and with such woeful scathe Doth guide his car, that to their deepest spring The rivers burn, and burn the grasses rathe; Ah fool, who knew not how to hold his way, Nor by that counsel leal and wise to stay!