THE KISS

O, rather than it would I smother,
Were I to taste such another,

It should be my wishing

89

That I might die kissing.

B. Jonson.

XCIV

COME you pretty false-eyed wanton,
Leave your crafty smiling!
Think you to escape me now

With slipp'ry words beguiling?
No; you mock'd me t' other day;
When you got loose, you fled away;
But, since I have caught you now,
I'll clip your wings for flying:
Smoth'ring kisses fast I'll heap,
And keep you so from crying.

Sooner may you count the stars
And number hail down-pouring,

Tell the osiers of the Thames,

Or Goodwin sands devouring, Than the thick-shower'd kisses here Which now thy tirèd lips must bear. Such a harvest never was

So rich and full of pleasure, But 'tis spent as soon as reap'd,

So trustless is Love's treasure.

T. Campion.

TURN back, you wanton flyer,

And answer my desire

With mutual greeting.

Yet bend a little nearer,

True beauty still shines clearer
In closer meeting.

Hearts with hearts delighted

Should strive to be united

Each other's arms with arms enchaining:

Hearts with a thought,

Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.

SONG OF THE SIRENS

91

What harvest half so sweet is

As still to reap the kisses

Grown ripe in sowing?

And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?

There's no strict observing

Of times' or seasons' swerving,

There is ever one fresh spring abiding;

Then what we sow,

With our lips let's reap, love's gains dividing.

XCVII

T. Campion.

SONG OF THE SIRENS

STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,

All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers ;—

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,

Exchange, and be awhile our guests

For stars gaze on our eyes:

The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Wm. Browne.

XCVIII

ULYSSES AND THE SIREN

SIREN

COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me:
The winds and seas are troublesome
And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

ULYSSES

Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth:

To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

Ulysses, O be not deceived.

With that unreal name;
This honour is a thing conceived
And rests on others' fame:
Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

The best thing of our life—our rest,
And give us up to toil.

ULYSSES

Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
No honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport:

For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much

As labour yields annoy.

SIREN

Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil,
Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversely

Find never tedious day,

And ease may

have variety

As well as action may.