 | Poems |  |
20
The Spring.
See how the Spring courts thee, Emaphilis;The painted Meadowes to invite thy eyes
But on their rich embroydery, the shade
Of every grove is now an harbour made
Where devout birds (to celebrate thy praise)
Each morn and evening offer up their laies,
Now the soft wind his winter-rage deposes
Sollicites Gardens for the breath of Rosses.
To pay as homage to thy sweeter lips,
Where such Nectarean fragrancy he sips
That richly laden to the East he roues
And with thy breath perfumes those spicy groves:
Their native fount and sacred Naiades
These Issuing streames renouncing to the presse;
whom finding they with purling murmurs chide:
That Natures Law Commands away their tide:
wishing that winter would confine their race
In Icy chaines, that they might stand and gaze;
If thou canst thus enflame Natures cold rheume
What wonder that my youthfull floud consume?
| Poems | |