Rouse up thy spirit like a god,
And play the archer finely,
Let none escape thy shaft or rod
'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:
So mayst thou chance to plague that heart
That cruelly hath made me smart.
From The New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
DO[29] not ask me, charming Phillis,
Why I lead you here alone
By this bank of pinks and lilies
And of roses newly blown.
'Tis not to behold the beauty
Of those flowers that crown the spring,
'Tis to—but I know my duty
And dare never name the thing.
'Tis at worst but her denying:
Why should I thus fearful be?
Every minute, gently flying,
Smiles and says "Make use of me."
What the sun does to those roses
While the beams play sweetly in,
I would—but my fear opposes
And I dare not name the thing.
Yet I die if I conceal it:
Ask my eyes, or ask your own,
And if neither dare reveal it,
Think what lovers think alone.
On this bank of pinks and lilies,
Might I speak what I would do,
I would—with my lovely Phillis—
I would—I would—ah, would you?
From William Corkine's Airs, 1610.