LIV.

VOLPONE'S SONG.

OME my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever:
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?

'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,
But the sweet theft to reveal:

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

LV.

D

TO CELIA.

RINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

LVI.

I

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me :
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,

And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,

And fresh and fragrant too,

As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown ;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

G

But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light
Though Hate had put them out:
But then to increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no

One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.

LVII.

IN CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.

SEE

HER TRIUMPH.

EE the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty;

And enamoured, do wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight;

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her!

And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it? Ha' you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it?

Ha' you felt the wool of beaver?

Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!