118. THE BUBBLE: A SONG To my revenge, and to her desperate fears, Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears! In the wild air, when thou hast roll'd about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out; Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye--then glare Like to a dreadful comet in the air: Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight For thy revenge to be most opposite, Then, like a globe, or ball of wild-fire, fly, And break thyself in shivers on her eye! 119. DELIGHT IN DISORDER A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness; A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility;-- Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. 120. TO SILVIA Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I confess My kiss out-went the bounds of shamefacedness:-- None is discreet at all times; no, not Jove Himself, at one time, can be wise and love. 121. TO SILVIA TO WED Let us, though late, at last, my Silvia, wed; And loving lie in one devoted bed. Thy watch may stand, my minutes fly post haste; No sound calls back the year that once is past. Then, sweetest Silvia, let's no longer stay; True love, we know, precipitates delay. Away with doubts, all scruples hence remove! No man, at one time, can be wise, and love. 122. BARLEY-BREAK; OR, LAST IN HELL We two are last in hell; what may we fear To be tormented or kept pris'ners here? Alas! if kissing be of plagues the worst, We'll wish in hell we had been last and first. 123. ON A PERFUMED LADY You say you're sweet: how should we know Whether that you be sweet or no? --From powders and perfumes keep free; Then we shall smell how sweet you be! 124. THE PARCAE; OR, THREE DAINTY DESTINIES: THE ARMILET Three lovely sisters working were, As they were closely set, Of soft and dainty maiden-hair, A curious Armilet. I, smiling, ask'd them what they did, Fair Destinies all three? Who told me they had drawn a thread Of life, and 'twas for me. They shew'd me then how fine 'twas spun And I replied thereto; 'I care not now how soon 'tis done, Or cut, if cut by you.' 125. A CONJURATION: TO ELECTRA