Here, where this delightful music was heard, the 'fair witch Acrasia,' was solacing herself with a new lover, she engaged in "wanton joys,❞— The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre; That erst was sought to deck both bed and bowre He ceast; and then gan all the quire of birdes Spensers Faerie Queene was printed only a few years previous to the Tasso of Fairfax. LOVE. BEN JONSON. Though I am young and cannot tell As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up, or fall; [Sung by Karolin in the Sad Shepherd.] THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS. BEN JONSON. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light Do but look on her hair it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that sooth her : And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself thro' her face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Have you felt the wool of the bever? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! BEGGING ANOTHER KISS. BEN JONSON. For love's sake, kiss me once again, Why do you doubt or stay? I'll taste as lightly as the bee, That doth but touch his flower and flies away. Once more, and, faith, I will be gone, Can he that loves ask less than one? And all your bounty wrong: This could be called but half a kiss; I will but mend the last, and tell Join lip to lip, and try, Each suck the others breath, And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, [From the Celebration of Charis.] GO, TELL AMYNTA. JOHN DRYDEN. Go, tell Amynta, gentle swain, A sigh, or tear, perhaps, she'll give, But love on pity cannot live. Tell her, that hearts for hearts were made, And love with love is only paid. ADDRESS TO BRITAIN. JOHN DRYDEN. Fairest isle, all isles excelling, Seat of pleasure and of love, Venus here will choose her dwelling, And forsake her Cyprian grove. |