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59
THE MASQUERADE DRESS.
The hall of the dancers with light was ablaze;
But for Cressida's presence the dancing delays;
She, alone in her chamber, was sheathing her limbs
In soft silk, that displayed all their forms and their whims;
O'er her body, the same silk she brought with gay scorn,
For the rind fits its fruit as this silk sheath was worn.
But for Cressida's presence the dancing delays;
She, alone in her chamber, was sheathing her limbs
In soft silk, that displayed all their forms and their whims;
O'er her body, the same silk she brought with gay scorn,
For the rind fits its fruit as this silk sheath was worn.
Beautiful did she stand; pearl-hued was the vest;
To her waist, by degrees, its rich colours increased;
To her feet, from her waist, by degrees they did fade,
And her limbs seemed all light in their faint masquerade;
Like a young rose-bud's cup, towards her neck it did close;
'Tis the garb of a boy; her breasts underneath rose.
To her waist, by degrees, its rich colours increased;
To her feet, from her waist, by degrees they did fade,
And her limbs seemed all light in their faint masquerade;
Like a young rose-bud's cup, towards her neck it did close;
'Tis the garb of a boy; her breasts underneath rose.
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The dance music sounded; she laughed a boy's laugh;
And she shook her gay curls down a foot and a half;
Then she narrowed her waist with a girl's waist-band,
And smilingly strove with a boy's stride to stand;
In a girl's gentle slippers she slipped her small feet,
And she sprang towards the hall singing loudly and sweet.
And she shook her gay curls down a foot and a half;
Then she narrowed her waist with a girl's waist-band,
And smilingly strove with a boy's stride to stand;
In a girl's gentle slippers she slipped her small feet,
And she sprang towards the hall singing loudly and sweet.
“Who cares for the grape, till his throat be dry?
Who blesses the stream, till the sun rides high?
What man to his mistress will fitly complain,
Till she sport with his love, and increase it to pain?
I'll lure him, repel him, repel while I lure;
For the wilder his passion, the dearer its cure.
Who blesses the stream, till the sun rides high?
What man to his mistress will fitly complain,
Till she sport with his love, and increase it to pain?
I'll lure him, repel him, repel while I lure;
For the wilder his passion, the dearer its cure.
“Love's a chase, and I'll fly; 'tis the flying invites;
A thing nearly lost, shows tenfold its delights;
Should chance dare dishevel my robes as I'm flown,
Why, I'll turn to tread down the pert chance, and be shown.
Tush! what though the vision my huntsman inflame,
The more ardent the hunting, the dearer the game.
A thing nearly lost, shows tenfold its delights;
Should chance dare dishevel my robes as I'm flown,
Why, I'll turn to tread down the pert chance, and be shown.
Tush! what though the vision my huntsman inflame,
The more ardent the hunting, the dearer the game.
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“Should he flag in the chase, I shall happen to fall;
And prostrate, and helpless, his name I shall call:
He will lift me—he'll trick to caress me the while;
And I'll be too faint quite to note the fond guile.
Tush! what though the burthen his love makes to burn,
The fondlier he'll pray me to hold him in turn.
And prostrate, and helpless, his name I shall call:
He will lift me—he'll trick to caress me the while;
And I'll be too faint quite to note the fond guile.
Tush! what though the burthen his love makes to burn,
The fondlier he'll pray me to hold him in turn.
“Should prudes blame my dress, Oh! all beautiful braid,
Yellow, crimson, and green, over it shall be played;
Like snakes on their sunny banks, soft it shall wind,
Everywhere where a place it can fancy or find;
I'll not feign one repulse, but right onward I'll lure,
Laughing out to my lover,—love makes its own cure!”
Yellow, crimson, and green, over it shall be played;
Like snakes on their sunny banks, soft it shall wind,
Everywhere where a place it can fancy or find;
I'll not feign one repulse, but right onward I'll lure,
Laughing out to my lover,—love makes its own cure!”
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