HARK, my Flora! Love doth call us | |
| To that strife that must befall us. | |
| He has robb’d his mother’s myrtles | |
| And hath pull’d her downy turtles. | |
| See, our genial posts are crown’d, | 5 |
| And our beds like billows rise: | |
| Softer combat’s nowhere found, | |
| And who loses wins the prize. | |
| |
| Let not dark nor shadows fright thee; | |
| Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee. | 10 |
| Fear not any can surprise us, | |
| Love himself doth now disguise us. | |
| From thy waist the girdle throw: | |
| Night and darkness both dwell here: | |
| Words or actions who can know, | 15 |
| Where there’s neither eye nor ear? | |
| |
| Shew thy bosom and then hide it; | |
| License touching and then chide it; | |
| Give a grant and then forbear it, | |
| Offer something and forswear it; | 20 |
| Ask where all our shame is gone; | |
| Call us wicked wanton men; | |
| Do as turtles, kiss and groan; | |
| Say “We ne’er shall meet again.” | |
| |
| I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee; | 25 |
| Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee; | |
| Easy riches is no treasure; | |
| She that’s willing spoils the pleasure. | |
| Love bids learn the wrestlers’ fight; | |
| Pull and struggle whilst ye twine; | 30 |
| Let me use my force to-night, | |
| The next conquest shall be thine. | |
| |
