Now, in some place where Nature shows Her naked beauty, we repose; Where she allures the wand'ring eye With colours, which faint art outvie; Pearls scatter'd by the weeping morn, Each where the glitt'ring flowers adorn; The mistress of the youthful year (To whom kind Zephyrus doth bear His amorous vows and frequent prayer) Decks with these gems her neck and hair. 30 Hither, to quicken Time with sport, The little sprightly Loves resort, And dancing o'er the enamel'd mead, Their mistresses the Graces lead; Then to refresh themselves, repair To the soft bosom of my fair; Where from the kisses they bestow Upon each other, such sweets flow As carry in their mixéd breath A mutual power of life and death. 40 Next in an elm's dilated shade We see a rugged Satyr laid, Teaching his reed, in a soft strain, Of his sweet anguish to complain; Then to a lonely grove retreat, Where day can no admittance get, To visit peaceful solitude; Whom seeing by repose pursu'd, All busy cares, for fear to spoil Their calmer courtship, we exile. 50 There underneath a myrtle, thought By Fairies sacred, where was wrought By Venus' hand Love's mysteries, And all the trophies of her eyes, Our solemn prayers to Heaven we send, That our firm love might know no end; Nor time its vigour e'er impair: Then to the wingéd God we sware, And grav'd the oath in its smooth rind, Which in our hearts we deeper find. 60 Then to my dear (as if afraid To try her doubted faith) I said, 'Would in thy soul my form as clear, As in thy eyes I see it, were.' She kindly angry saith, 'Thou art Drawn more at large within my heart; These figures in my eye appear But small, because they are not near, Thou through these glasses seest thy face, As pictures through their crystal case.' 70 Now with delight transported, I My wreathéd arms about her tie; The flattering Ivy never holds Her husband Elm in stricter folds: To cool my fervent thirst, I sip Delicious nectar from her lip. She pledges, and so often past This amorous health, till Love at last Our souls did with these pleasures sate, And equally inebriate. 80 Awhile, our senses stol'n away, Lost in this ecstasy we lay, Till both together rais'd to life, We re-engage in this kind strife. Cythaera with her Syrian boy Could never reach our meanest joy. The childish God of Love ne'er tried So much of love with his cold bride, As we in one embrace include, Contesting each to be subdu'd. 90