Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
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THE DANCE.
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 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
105
THE DANCE.
Anacreontic.
Hark! the speaking strings invite,
Music calls us to delight:
See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.
Music calls us to delight:
See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.
On each glowing cheek is spread,
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye,
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye,
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.
As the magic numbers rise,
Through my veins the poison flies;
Raptures, not to be exprest,
Revel in my throbbing breast.
Jocund as we beat the ground,
Love and Harmony go round.
Through my veins the poison flies;
Raptures, not to be exprest,
Revel in my throbbing breast.
106
Love and Harmony go round.
Every maid (to crown his bliss)
Gives her youth a rosy kiss;
Such a kiss as might inspire
Thrilling raptures—soft desire:
Such Adonis might receive,
Such the Queen of Beauty gave,
When the conquer'd Goddess strove
(In the conscious myrtle grove)
To inflame the boy with love.
Gives her youth a rosy kiss;
Such a kiss as might inspire
Thrilling raptures—soft desire:
Such Adonis might receive,
Such the Queen of Beauty gave,
When the conquer'd Goddess strove
(In the conscious myrtle grove)
To inflame the boy with love.
Let not Pride our sports restrain,
Banish hence the Prude, Disdain!
Think—ye virgins, if you're coy,
Think—ye rob yourselves of joy;
Every moment you refuse,
So much extasy you lose:
Think—how fast these moments fly:
If you should too long deny,
Love and Beauty both will die.
Banish hence the Prude, Disdain!
Think—ye virgins, if you're coy,
Think—ye rob yourselves of joy;
Every moment you refuse,
So much extasy you lose:
Think—how fast these moments fly:
If you should too long deny,
Love and Beauty both will die.
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |