 | Poems (1657) |  |
1
TO THE State of Love.
OR, The Senses Festivall.
I saw a vision yester-nightEnough to tempt a Seekers sight:
I wisht my selfe a Shaker there,
And her quick pulse my trembling Sphear:
It was a she so glittering bright,
You'd think her soule an Adamite.
A person of so rare a frame,
Her body might be lin'd with 'same,
Beauties chiefest Maid of Honour;
You'd break a Lent with looking on her.
Not the faire Abbesse of the skies,
With all her Nunnery of eyes,
Can shew me such a glorious prize.
And yet, because 'tis more renown
To make a shadow shine, she's brown;
A brown, for which, heaven would disband
The Gallaxye, and stars be tan'd.
Brow by reflection, as her eye,
Dazels the Summers livery.
2
Her beams their glimmering spectacles;
Struck with the splendor of her face,
Do'th'office of a burning-glasse.
Now where such radiant lights have shown,
No wonder if her cheeks be grown
Sun-burnt with lustre of her owne.
My sight took pay, but (thank my charms)
I now empale her in mine arms,
(Loves compasses) confining you
Good Angels to a compasse too.
Is not the Universe straight-lac't,
When I can clasp it in the wast?
My amorous foulds about thee hurl'd
VVith Drake, I compasse in the VVorld;
I hoop the firmament, and make
This my embrace the Zodiack.
How would thy Center take my sence,
VVhen admiration doth commence,
At the extream circumference!
Now to the melting kisse that sips
The jelley'd Philtre of her lips
So sweet, there is no tongue can prais't
Till transubstantiate with a taste,
Inspir'd like Mahomet from above,
By th'billing of my heav'nly Dove;
Love prints her Signets in her smacks,
Those ruddy drops of squeezing wax;
Which wheresoever she imparts,
They're Privy Seales to take up hearts.
3
My slippery soul had quit the fort,
But that she stopt the Sally-port
Next to those sweets her lips dispence,
As twin-conserves of eloquence,
The sweet perfume her breath affords;
Incorporating with her words;
No Rosary this votresse needs,
Her very syllables are beads.
No sooner 'twixt those Rubies born,
But Jewels are in Ear-rings worn.
VVith what delight her speech doth enter,
It is a kisse o'th'second venter,
And I dissolve at what I hear,
As if another Rosomond were
Couch'd in the Labyrinth of my ear.
Yet, that's but a preludious blisse;
Two souls pickering in a kisse.
Embraces do but draw the line,
'Tis storming that must take her in.
VVhen bodies whine, and victory hovers
'Twixt the equall fluttering lovers,
This is the game, make stakes my dear,
Hark how the sprightly Chanticlere,
That Baron Tell-clock of the night,
Sounds Boot-esel to Cupids knight.
Then have at all, the passe is got,
For coming off, oh name it not:
VVho would not dye upon the spot?
| Poems (1657) | |