The spangling dew dredged o’er the grass shall be
Turn’d all to mell and manna there for thee.
Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil,
Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil.
Would’st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould?
–Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold.
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Go, happy Rose, and interwove
Tell her, too, she must not beLonger flowing, longer free,That so oft has fetter’d me.Say, if she’s fretful, I have bandsOf pearl and gold, to bind her hands;Tell her, if she struggle still,I have myrtle rods at will,For to tame, though not to kill.Take thou my blessing thus, and goAnd tell her this,–but do not…
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, thereWhere my Julia’s lips do smile;–There’s the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
And had her, but it was uponThis short, but strict condition;Backward he should not look, while heLed her through hell’s obscurity.But ah! it happen’d, as he madeHis passage through that dreadful shade,Revolve he did his loving eye,For gentle fear or jealousy;And looking back, that look did severHim and Eurydice for ever.
Under a lawn, than skies more clear,
And snugging there, they seem’d to lieAs in a flowery nunnery;They blush’d, and look’d more fresh than flowersQuickened of late by pearly showers;And all, because they were possestBut of the heat of Julia’s breast,Which, as a warm and moisten’d spring,Gave them their ever-flourishing.
No fault in women, to refuse
– No fault: in women, to confessHow tedious they are in their dress;– No fault in women, to lay onThe tincture of vermilion;And there to give the cheek a dyeOf white, where Nature doth deny.– No fault in women, to make showOf largeness, when they’re nothing so;When, true it is, the outside swellsWith inward buckram,…