The gold that on his quiver smiles, His torch imperious, though but small, Though thou see the crafty elf Tell down his silver drops unto thee: His fawning cheeks, look not that way. Start, and say, the serpent hisses. Lest his kindness make thee bleed. Whate'er it be Love offers, still presume That though it shines, 'tis fire, and will consume. OUT OF THE ITALIAN. A SONG. To thy lover Dear, discover That sweet blush of thine that shameth (When those roses It discloses) All the flowers that Nature nameth. In free air Flow thy hair; That no more Summer's best dresses Be beholden For their golden Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses. O deliver Love his quiver; From thy eyes he shoots his arrows: Where Apollo Cannot follow: Feather'd with his mother's sparrows. O envy not (That we die not) Those dear lips whose door encloses All the Graces In their places, Brother pearls, and sister roses, From these treasures Of ripe pleasures One bright smile to clear the weather. Earth and Heaven Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. The air does woo thee, Winds cling to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee, Storm and thunder Would sit under, And keep silence round about thee. But if Nature's Common creatures So dear glories dare not borrow; Owes a duty To my loving, lingering sorrow. When to end me Death shall send me All his terrors to affright me : Thine eyes' Graces Gild their faces, And those terrors shall delight me. When my dying Life is flying, Those sweet airs that often slew me Shall revive me, Or reprieve me, And to many deaths renew me. OUT OF THE ITALIAN. Love now no fire hath left him, We two betwixt us have divided it : Your eyes the light hath reft him ; The heat commanding in my heart doth sit. So shall these flames, whose worth (Dressed in those beams) start forth Or else partake my flames (I care not whether), And so in mutual names Of Love, burn both together. OUT OF THE ITALIAN. Would any one the true cause find 'Tis this listening one day too long To th' Syrens in my mistress' song, The ecstasy of a delight So much o'er-mastering all his might, To that one sense made all else thrall, And so he lost his clothes, eyes, heart, and all. OUT OF CATULLUS. Come and let us live, my dear, A thousand, and a hundred score, That, and that wipe off another. Thus at last, when we have numbered |