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Come, sit we under yonder tree, Where merry as the maids we'll be; And as on primroses we sit, We'll venture, if we can, at wit: If not, at draw-gloves we will play; So spend some minutes of the day: Or else spin out the thread of sands, Playing at Questions and Commands: Or tell what strange tricks love can do, By quickly making one of two. Thus we will sit and talk, but tell No cruel truths of Philomel, Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd on To kill herself for Demophon. But fables we'll relate: how Jove Put on all shapes to get a love; As now a satyr, then a swan; A bull but then, and now a man. Next we will act how young men woo, And sigh, and kiss as lovers do; And talk of brides, and who shall make That wedding-smock, this bridal cake, That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine, That smooth and silken columbine. This done, we'll draw lots who shall buy