Ay, though in Athens you must live and move
Still are you mine in mysteries and joys.
I thank you, sir, for having taught me love
That is forever holy, wronging none.
Aris. Nay, Aratea, man can not be God
And pipe all Heaven through a mortal reed!
Come to my arms, O life and soul of me!
As chaste verbenas on an altar kiss,
As streamlets join in soft approving shade,
As clouds immingle in the glancing sun,