|
And makes all like it selfe, turnes all to fire, |
But ends in ashes, which these cannot doe, |
For none of these is fuell; but fire too. |
This is joyes bonfire, then, where loves strong Arts |
Make of so noble individuall parts |
One fire of foure inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts. |
|
Idios. As I have brought this song, that I may doe |
A perfect sacrifice, I'll burne it too. |
|
Allophanes. No Sir. This paper I have justly got, |
For in burnt Incense the perfume is not |
His onely that presents it, but of all; |
What ever celebrates this Festivall |
Is common, since the joy thereof is so. |
Nor may your selfe be Priest: but let me goe; |
Backe to the Court, and I will lay't upon |
Such Altars, as prize your devotion. |
|
Epithalamion made at Lincolnes Inne. |
|
The Sun-beames in the East are spred, |
Leave, leave, faire Bride, your solitary bed, |
No more shall you returne to it alone, |
It nourseth sadnesse, and your bodies print,
|
[CW: Like] |