I WILL not do a sacrifice
To thy face or to thy eyes,
Nor unto thy lily palm,
Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;
But the part to which my heart
In vows is seal'd
Is that mine of bliss divine
Which is conceal'd.
What's the golden fruit to me
If I may not pluck the tree?
Bare enjoying all the rest
Is but like a golden feast,
Which at need can never feed
Our love-sick wishes:
Let me eat substantial meat,
Not view the dishes.
From Wit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden, 1674.
The Surprising Lover.
LOVE, in rambling once astray,
Was benighted in his way;
With cold and tiresome cares opprest,
He creeps in fair Lucina's breast
To shelter there and take his rest.
The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,
And of an unexpected guess[45]
Much less,
To come so late,
Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,
Prepares his arms to try a feat.
The deed scarce done, the nymph awakes
And in the act the youngster takes,
Strangely surprised, yet well contented too
That she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.
Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,
She liked his presence more and more;
Telling him, rather than he should begone,
She'd nurse and keep him as her own;
And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,
She'd find him lodging next her heart.
From The New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
PISH,[46] modest sipper, to't again!
My sweetest joy,
The wine's not coy
As women are.
My dearest puling, prithee then,
Prithee, my fair,
Once more bedew those lips of thine,
Mend thy draught and mend the wine.
Since it hath tasted of thy lip
(Too quickly cloy'd),
How overjoy'd
It cheerfully
Invites thee to another sip.
Methinks I see
The wine perfumed by thee, my fair:
Bacchus himself is dabbling there.
Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;
Bathe that cherry
In the sherry,
The jocund wine
Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye
As more divine;
Though thou take none to drink to me,
Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.
Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!
Well, I perceive
Why this you leave;
My love reveals
And makes me guess what 'tis you mean:
Because at meals
My lips are kept from kissing thee,
Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.
From Choice Drollery, 1656.
Against Fruition.
THERE is not half so warm a fire
In the fruition as desire.
When I have got the fruit of pain
Possession makes me poor again:
Expected forms and shapes unknown
Whet and make sharp tentation.
Sense is too niggardly for bliss,
And pays me dully with what is;
But fancy's liberal and gives all
That can within her vastness fall.
Veil therefore still, while I divine
The treasure of this hidden mine,
And make imagination tell
What wonders doth in beauty dwell.