Then let thy active hand scud o’er thy lyre,
And make my spirits frantic with the fire;
That done, sink down into a silvery strain,
And make me smooth as balm and oil again.
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1 Among thy fancies, tell me this,
2 I shall resolve ye what it is:–It is a creature born and bredBetween the lips, all cherry-red,By love and warm desires fed,–CHOR. And makes more soft the bridal bed.2 It is an active flame, that fliesFirst to the babies of the eyes,And charms them there with lullabies,–CHOR. And stills the bride, too, when she…
Is this a life, to break thy sleep,
To tire thy patient ox or assBy noon, and let thy good days pass,Not knowing this, that Jove decreesSome mirth, t’ adulce man’s miseries?–No; ’tis a life to have thine oilWithout extortion from thy soil;Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain,Although with some, yet little pain;To have thy mind, and nuptial bed,With fears and cares…
Every time seems short to be
But one half-hour that’s made up hereWith grief, seems longer than a year.
I dare not ask a kiss,
Lest having that, or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall be,Only to kiss that airThat lately kissed thee,