 | Wishes to a godson |  |
On CELIA's Bosom.
I
Ye Gods! how is my Soul amazed,Since I on Celia's Bosom gazed;
I saw the Pink and July-Flower,
Decay and Fade in half an Hour.
Wrapt up in wonder, when I spied
How soon the freshest Nosegays died;
By her Coldness, Mien and Dress,
By her Looks I thought no less,
17
Were ruin'd by some nipping Frost;
Then looking on the modest Maid,
I bless'd her Innocence, and said,
Those Breasts are sure the Pyrenean Hills,
Where ev'n in June, a rigid Winter dwells;
And why the more I thought them so,
Was, that they look'd like deck'd with Snow.
II
But when I touch'd th'inviting Skin,What Furnaces I found within;
I felt her Blood start up and fly,
And in her Veins boil Mountain high;
The Flame dispers'd thro' every part,
Shot thro' my Hand, and scorch'd my Heart.
Outward Coldness is deceit,
And undone my mystick heat;
18
Where nothing but the Stalk is left;
What ever Snows without appear,
I'm sure there's a Vesvious near.
And yet I'm tempted with a strong desire,
To go in quest of this deep Gulph of fire;
And will whatever place it is,
Like Pliny, venture on th'Abyss.
| Wishes to a godson | |