|
| Fire ever doth aspire, |
| And makes all like it self, turns all to fire, |
| But ends in ashes, which these cannot do, |
| For none of these is fuell; but fire too. |
| This is joyes bonfire, then, where loves strong Arts |
| Make of so noble individual parts |
| One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts. |
| Idios. |
| As I have brought this song, that I may do |
| A perfect sacrifice, I'll burn it too. |
|
| Allophanes. |
| No Sir, this Paper I have justly got, |
| For in burnt Incense the perfume is not |
| His only that presents it, but of all; |
| What ever celebrates this Festivall |
| Is common, since the joy thereof is so. |
| Nor may your self be Priest: but let me go |
| Back to the Court, and I will lay't upon |
| Such Altars, as prize your devotion. |
|
| Epithalamion made at Lincolns Inne. |
|
| The Sun-beams in the East are spred, |
| Leave, leave, fair Bride, your solitary bed, |
| No more shall you return to it alone, |
| It nurseth sadness; and your bodies print, |
| Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint; |
| You and your other You meet there anon, |
| Put forth, put forth, that warm balm-breathing thigh, |
| Which when next time you in these sheets will smother, |
| There it must meet another, |
| Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh;
|
[CW: Come] |