LIV. VOLPONE'S SONG. OME my Celia, let us prove, 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal, To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been. LV. D TO CELIA. RINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not withered be. But thou thereon did'st only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, LVI. I A NYMPH'S PASSION. LOVE, and he loves me again, Yet dare I not tell who; For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too; Yet if it be not known, The pleasure is as good as none, For that's a narrow joy is but our own. I'll tell, that if they be not glad, They yet may envy me : It were a plague 'bove scorn, And yet it cannot be forborn, Unless my heart would as my thought be torn. He is, if they can find him, fair, And fresh and fragrant too, As summer's sky, or purged air, That are this morning blown ; Yet, yet I doubt he is not known, And fear much more, that more of him be shown. G But he hath eyes so round and bright, Where Love may all his torches light What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears. I'll tell no more, and yet I love, And he loves me; yet no One unbecoming thought doth move But so exempt from blame, As it would be to each a fame, If love or fear would let me tell his name. LVII. IN CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. SEE HER TRIUMPH. EE the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamoured, do wish so they might That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright Do but mark her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Ha' you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Ha' you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! |