When Philomela, with her strains,
The Spring had welcomed in;
And Flora to bestrew the plains,
With daisies did begin:
My Love and I (on whom suspicious eyes
Had set a thousand spies)
To cozen Argos strove;
And seen of none,
We got alone
Into a shady grove.
On every bush, the eglantine,
With leaves perfumèd hung:
The primrose made the hedgerows fine;
The woods, of music rung:
The earth, the air, and all things did conspire
To raise contentment higher;
That, had I come to woo,
Nor means of grace,
Nor time, nor place
Were wanting thereunto.
With hand in hand, alone we walked,
And oft each other eyed;
Of Love and Passions past we talked,
Which our poor hearts had tried:
Our souls infused into each other were.
And what may be her care
Did my more sorrow breed.
One mind we bore,
One faith we swore,
And both in one agreed.
Her dainty palm, I gently prest,
And with her lips I played;
My cheek, upon her panting breast,
And on her neck, I laid;
And yet we had no sense of wanton lust;
Nor did we then mistrust
The Poison in the Sweet.
Our bodies wrought
So close, we thought,
Because our souls should meet.
With pleasant toil, we breathless grew,
And kist in warmer blood:
Upon her lips, the honey dew,
Like drops on roses stood.
And on those flowers, played I the busy bee,
Whose sweets, were such to me,
Them could I not forego.
No, not to feast
On Venus' breast,
Whence streams of sweetness flow.
But kissing and embracing, we
So long together lay;
Her touches all inflamèd me,
And I began to stray.
My hands presumed so far, they were too bold!
My tongue unwisely told
How much my heart was changed.
And Virtue quite
Was put to flight;
Or, for the time, estranged.
O, what are we, if in our strength
We over boldly trust?
The strongest forts will yield at length,
And so our virtues must.
In Me, no force of Reason had prevailed,
If She had also failed.
But ere I further strayed,
She, sighing, kist
My naked wrist:
And thus, in tears, she said.
"Sweet Heart!" quoth she, "if in thy breast
Those virtues real be,
Which, hitherto, thou hast profest,
And I believed in thee;
Thyself and Me, O seek not to abuse!
Whilst thee I thus refuse,
In hotter flames I fry!
Yet let us not,
Our true love, spot!
O, rather, let me die!"
"For if thy heart should fall from good,
What would become of mine?
As strong a Passion stirs my blood,
As can distemper thine!
Yet in my breast, this rage I smother would,
Though it consume me, should;
And my desires contain.
For where we see
Such breaches be,
They seldom stop again."