Festum Uoluptatis, Or the Banquet of Pleasure Fvrnished with Mvch Variety of Speculations, Wittie, Pleasant, and Delightfull. Containing divers choyce Love-Posies, Songs, Sonnets, Odes, Madrigals, Satyrs, Epigrams, Epitaphs and Elegies. For varietie and pleasure the like never before published. By S. P. [i.e. Samuel Pick] |
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SONET.
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 | Festum Uoluptatis, Or the Banquet of Pleasure |  |
SONET.
To his Mistresse confin'd.
O thinke not Phœbe 'cause a cloud,
Doth now thy silver brightnesse shrowde,
My wandring eyes,
Can stoope to common beauties of the skie,
Rather be kind, and this eclipse,
Shall neither hinder eye nor lippes
For we shall meet,
Within our hearts, and kisse when none shall see't.
Doth now thy silver brightnesse shrowde,
My wandring eyes,
Can stoope to common beauties of the skie,
Rather be kind, and this eclipse,
Shall neither hinder eye nor lippes
For we shall meet,
Within our hearts, and kisse when none shall see't.
Nor canst thou in the prison be,
Without some loving signe of me,
When thou dost spie,
A Sunne beame peepe into the roome, 'tis I:
For I am hid within that flame,
And thus into the Chamber came,
To let thee see,
In what a Martyrdome I burne for thee.
Without some loving signe of me,
When thou dost spie,
A Sunne beame peepe into the roome, 'tis I:
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And thus into the Chamber came,
To let thee see,
In what a Martyrdome I burne for thee.
When thou doest touch the Lute, thou maist
Thinke on my heart, on which thou playst,
When each sad Tone,
Upon the strings doth shew my deeper groane:
When thou dost please they shall rebound,
With nimble aire strucke to the sound,
Of thine owne voice,
Oh thinke how much I tremble and rejoyce.
Thinke on my heart, on which thou playst,
When each sad Tone,
Upon the strings doth shew my deeper groane:
When thou dost please they shall rebound,
With nimble aire strucke to the sound,
Of thine owne voice,
Oh thinke how much I tremble and rejoyce.
There's no sad picture that doth dwell
Upon thy Arras wall, but well
Resembles me.
No matter though our age doth not agree:
Love can make old as well as time,
And he that doth but twenty clyme,
If he dare prove
As true as I, shewes fourescore yeeres in Love.
Upon thy Arras wall, but well
Resembles me.
No matter though our age doth not agree:
Love can make old as well as time,
And he that doth but twenty clyme,
If he dare prove
As true as I, shewes fourescore yeeres in Love.
| Festum Uoluptatis, Or the Banquet of Pleasure | |