A Bucolic Betwixt Two: Lacon & Thyrsis

LACON:    For a kiss or two, confess, What doth cause this pensiveness, Thou most lovely neat-herdess? Why so lonely on the hill? Why thy pipe by thee so still, That erewhile was heard so shrill? Tell me, do thy kine now fail To fulfil the milking-pail? Say, what is't that thou dost ail? THYR:    None of these; but out, alas! A mischance is come to pass, And I'll tell thee what it was: See, mine eyes are weeping ripe. LACON.    Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe. THYR:    I have lost my lovely steer, That to me was far more dear Than these kine which I milk here; Broad of forehead, large of eye, Party-colour'd like a pye, Smooth in each limb as a die; Clear of hoof, and clear of horn, Sharply pointed as a thorn; With a neck by yoke unworn, From the which hung down by strings, Balls of cowslips, daisy rings, Interplaced with ribbonings; Faultless every way for shape; Not a straw could him escape, Ever gamesome as an ape, But yet harmless as a sheep. Pardon, Lacon, if I weep; Tears will spring where woes are deep. Now, ai me!    ai me!    Last night Came a mad dog, and did bite, Ay, and kill'd my dear delight. LACON:    Alack, for grief! THYR:    But I'll be brief. Hence I must, for time doth call Me, and my sad playmates all, To his evening funeral. Live long, Lacon; so adieu! LACON: Mournful maid, farewell to you; Earth afford ye flowers to strew!