Pocula Castalia The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron] |
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56
A Rapture.
1
Come (Fairest) through the fleeting skieLets cut a way with nimble pace,
On Cvpids pointed wings lets flie
To Paradise, which is my place
Where I may banquet on thy face.
2
Hark! the Springs Quiristers conspireWith aires might make an Hermit dote
T'invite us to their leavy Quire,
And Philomela's well-strung throat
Is tun'd with an alluring note.
3
The flowrie Floore's embelishedWith Cloris's painted Tapsterie,
By Nymphs at Loves command here spred,
Who meant that these should be for thee
A downy Bed, and thou for me.
4
No spies shall lurk here to revealeTo eares that itch with jealousie
The houres of Pleasure we two steale:
Great Jove knew no such Liberty
When he imbrac'd bright Danae.
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5
Being set, lets sport a while (my Deare)I will look Babies in thine eye,
Which shall i'th'shade make sun-shine cleer,
And Love knots in thy locks I'l tie
Wherein my Heart doth fetter'd lie.
6
I'l turne Loves Bee, and feast a whileOn either Rose which kindly do
Unite in thy fair cheek, whose smile
Might make a Cynick love thee too,
And tempt him from his Tub to woo.
7
I will bedew with fervent kissesThe fresh Adonis on thy lip
That balmy Theater of blisses,
Chorus of kisses there shall skip
And in unnumbred Galliards trip.
8
The Violets of thy veines I'l tastThat in blew archt Meanders lay.
Thence to the vale of Lillies hast
In whose smooth allyes I will stray,
And 'mong their Mazes lose my way.
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9
Next downwards I'l my way devoure,To Loves sweet-bramble bush I'l fly,
And cull from evry spicy flower
Fresh bags of hony, till that I
Have swell'd therwith my laden thigh.
10
Then to thy hive my Load of BalmeI'l bring, where (as in thought before)
Halfe smothered in a sweaty Qualme,
I will unlade my plenteous store,
And roam about thy fields for more.
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