 | Poems |  |
The Breath.
Favonius the milder breath o'th' Spring,When proudly bearing on his softer wing
Rich odours, which from the Panchean groves
He steals, as by the Phenix pyre he moves,
Profusely doth his sweeter theft dispence
To the next Roses blushing innocence,
But from the grateful Flower, a richer scent
He back receives then he unto it lent.
Then laden with his odours richest store,
He to thy Breath hasts! to which these are poor;
Which whilst the amorous wind to steal essaies,
He like a wanton Lover 'bout thee playes,
And sometimes cooling thy soft cheek doth lie,
And sometimes burning at thy flaming eye:
Drawn in at last by that breath we implore,
He now returns far sweeter then before,
And rich by being rob'd, in Thee he finds
The burning sweets of Pyres, the cool of Winds.
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