Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
 |
|
To Amanda inviting her to walk.
|
|
|
 | Amanda |  |
To Amanda inviting her to walk.
Come, 'tis a morning like thy self, my Faire,
Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air
With the fresh fragrant odours of its balme,
Still'd from the last nights dew, a pleasing calm
Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast,
No sauce winde to give the least distaste;
In the disordering of those curles, which move
As if each haire were with it self in love;
Thy fingers made those rings, and ev'ry haire,
Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there:
Heark how the birds play Consorts o're and o're!
Heark to that modest begger at the door,
Whose lungs breath spices! gentle Zephyrus
Whispers, and through the key-hole calls to us;
The Sunne himself yonder expectant stayes,
And strewes the golden atomes of his raies,
To guild thy paths; though in post-haste he be,
Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee.
The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon
And Mab his Emp'resse both expect thee yon,
They wait to see thee, sport the time away,
And on green beds of dazies dance the hay;
In their small acorn posnets, as they meet
Quaffe off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet.
The black-birds whistle, and the Finches sing
To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring.
Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air
With the fresh fragrant odours of its balme,
Still'd from the last nights dew, a pleasing calm
Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast,
No sauce winde to give the least distaste;
47
As if each haire were with it self in love;
Thy fingers made those rings, and ev'ry haire,
Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there:
Heark how the birds play Consorts o're and o're!
Heark to that modest begger at the door,
Whose lungs breath spices! gentle Zephyrus
Whispers, and through the key-hole calls to us;
The Sunne himself yonder expectant stayes,
And strewes the golden atomes of his raies,
To guild thy paths; though in post-haste he be,
Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee.
The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon
And Mab his Emp'resse both expect thee yon,
They wait to see thee, sport the time away,
And on green beds of dazies dance the hay;
In their small acorn posnets, as they meet
Quaffe off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet.
The black-birds whistle, and the Finches sing
To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring.
Come then, my Turtle, let us make our flight,
And browse it in the arbours of delight;
To the next me low-Tempe let us move;
Let's flie to Heaven on the wings of love,
And when kinde Cupid has conveigh'd us thither,
Wee'l chastely sit and mingle bills together.
And browse it in the arbours of delight;
To the next me low-Tempe let us move;
Let's flie to Heaven on the wings of love,
And when kinde Cupid has conveigh'd us thither,
Wee'l chastely sit and mingle bills together.
| Amanda | |