John Chatwin

"Thrice happy Thou! Who on the Poplars Boughs, Sitst drunk with Heavns Ambrosial Dews. And with thy Notes thyself, dost please, And all the numʼrous Throng of listning Trees.After long Colds and odious Winters past, On nimble Wheels the Summers hast; Blame its unkindness, gently say — The Sun too soon withdraws his chearing Ray.As evry happy Day itself does show, So in a trice it leaves us too, No pleasure over long remains For short-livd joyes We meet with lasting pains."

"Thou Glorious Rivall of the Sky, Why in Nights bed dost thou still lye? Lift up thy head, thou queen of flowrs, Gay daughter of celestial powrs! Now no watrish clouds appear, Gentle zephyrs calm the air; Now the Western Gales do play, And the Northern Blasts allay. Arise! But ask not whose bright Face, Or Hair thy native Beam may grace; The Lewd, Lascivious, and Prophane May glory from thy Beauties gain, Thou sacred Trophy of chaste Love, Thou Wealth of Vertue fixt Above! Forbour the vulgar heads tadorn, For Shrines and Altars Thou art born; The Blessed Virgins Hair, now unconfind, Which sports with easy soft obsequious Wind, Thy gay Perfumes, and youthful Leaves shall bind."

"Dear Lesbia let us love and play, Not caring what Old Age can say; The Sun does set, again does rise, And with fresh Lustre gild the Skies. When once extinguisht is our Light, Wee’re wrapt in everlasting Night. A thousand times my lips then kiss An hundred more renew the bliss; Another thousand add to these, An hundred more will not suffice, Another thousand will not do, Another hundred are too few. A thousand more these Joyes wee’ll prove, Till wee’re extravagant in Love, Till no malicious Spie can ghess To what a wonderful Excess My Lesbia and I did kiss."