'Greeting,' Reader; and now 'farewell'! Wherefore shouldst thou on my page dwell, Where neither jest nor sport inviteth, That the jocund youth delighteth? Therefore, Reader, pass thee by To thine own idle jollity: The notes that trill from my poor lute Such as thee shall never suit; Nor here are Acidalian dews That Venus' roses sweet suffuse; Nor breath sets Cupid's torch a-blaze That lovers on my lines may gaze. Vainly shall mother and shall son Look here for lewd emotion. Cupid, seek thy mother's kirtle, Or hide thee 'neath her fragrant myrtle. And, Venus, thy Idalian hills Will better yield thee sport that thrills: Thither, therefore, goddess, turn; O'er thy lost Adonis burn; Or devise, if grief thee frets, Other shrines for thy violets: There, with Flora and the Spring The green earth enamelling, Thou mayst fill thy bosom's whiteness, He his wings in all their brightness, With all flow'rs that wait on thee When thou holdest revelry. Me my own poor flow'r will crown; Poor 'tis true, yet all my own-- Poor but pure. So let it be, Those unto others, this to me. No Circe-cup foams in my verse, To make fierce lustings still more fierce; No draft of Lethe here doth flow, Flow'ry above, deathly below; No false cheeks, with falser bloom-- A rose up-bursting from a tomb; No barb hid 'neath treach'rous plume; No poison spread as honey'd bait; No line where danger lies in wait: Here's nor spleen nor melancholy, That for me were unmeet wholly; Rarely do I raise a smile, Ne'er merge my wit in wanton wile; Never quicken Passion's pulse, Nor show nude Beauty to convulse, Until beneath the hoof o' th' flesh The strong man bound is in Lust's mesh. If jest I pass, do not repine To learn it reeks not of the wine; For my Apollo is celestial, And from Bacchus shrinks as bestial. Nothing that's foul my page contains; Nothing the modest eye arraigns; Nothing to cause averted face-- Lucretia every line might trace With calm, serene, unfearing eye, Nor blush stain cheek of Modesty. For not more pure the maiden's vow[42] Whisper'd in tremulous words and low, As, girt in snowy robe, her breast Heaves like a wave in sweet unrest, And the white veil shows whiter brow In pureness of unfallen snow, With flame-gleam from meek-droppèd hair Dishevell'd by the am'rous air: Soft strains with her soft voice blending, The marriage-rites to heaven ascending: Yea, not the altar's self exhaleth More chastely, as its God it haileth, That keeps far off unholy hands While there the priest with bow'd head stands. My verse is not the Queen of Love's, Nor knows the cooing of her doves: Her beauty me not overpowers, Though bright as skies when no cloud low'rs;