Cupid's Holiday.
LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,
Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyes
Ne'er shot glance but might beseem
Diana and her maiden team
Of icy virgins; hence, away!
Disturb not our licentious play,
For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.
Go, glory in the empty name
Of virgin; let your idle flame
Consume itself, while we enjoy
Those pleasures which fair Venus' boy
Grants to those whose mingled thighs
Are trophies of his victories,[49]
From whence new pleasures still arise.
Those only are admitted here
Whose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fear
Of man's embraces; whose fair face
Can give enjoyment such a grace
As wipes away the hated name
Of lust, and calls their amorous flame
A virtue free from fear or shame.
With them we'll number kisses till
We pose arithmetic, and fill
Our hearts with pleasure[50] till it swells
Beyond those bounds where blushing dwells:
Then will we ourselves entomb
In those joys which fill the womb,
Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.
At waking no repentance shall
With our past sweetness mingle gall;
We'll kiss again till we restore
Our strength again to venture more:
Then we'll renew again our play,
Admitting of no long delay
Till we end our holiday.
W. Munsey.[51]
From Harl. MS. 7332, fol. 47.
IN summer-time, when birds do sing,
And country maids are making hay,
As I went forth myself alone
To view the meadows fresh and gay,
The country maidens I espied
With fine lawn aprons as white as snow,
And crimson ribands about their arms,
Which made a pretty country show.
The young men fell a-prating,
And took the maidens from hay-making
To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
Up and down the green meadow.