Of Cytherea’s kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus’ curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.
O! true things are fables,
Fit for sagest tables,