[To find out this Rest] at last?— [Leans on, and kisses her Bosom.
Upon thy tender Bosom to repose;
To gaze upon thy Eyes, and taste thy Balmy Kisses, [Kisses her.
—Sweeter than everlasting Groves of Spices,
When the soft Winds display the opening Buds:
—Come, haste, my Soul, to Bed—
La Nu. You can be soft I find, when you wou’d conquer absolutely.
Will. Not infant Angels, not young sighing Cupids
Can be more; this ravishing Joy that thou hast promis’d me,
Has form’d my Soul to such a Calm of Love,