Charles Cotton (1630–1687)

WINDS, whisper gently whilst she sleeps,

And fan her with your cooling wings;

While she her drops of beauty weeps,

From pure, and yet unrivalled springs.

Glide over Beauty’s field, her face,

To kiss her lip and cheek be bold;

But with a calm and stealing pace;

Neither too rude, nor yet too cold.

Play in her beams, and crisp her hair

With such a gale as wings soft Love,

And with so sweet, so rich an air,

As breathes from the Arabian grove.

A breath as hushed as lover’s sigh;

Or that unfolds the morning’s door:

Sweet as the winds that gently fly

To sweep the Spring’s enamelled floor.

Murmur soft music to her dreams,

That pure and unpolluted run

Like to the new-born crystal streams,

Under the bright enamoured sun.

But when she walking shall display,

Her light, retire within your bar;

Her breath is life, her eyes are day,

And all mankind her creatures are.