The Rose
I.
Sweet serene skye-like Flower,
Haste to adorn her Bower : From thy long clowdy bed, Shoot forth thy damaske head.
II.
New-startled blush of Flora !
The griefe of pale Aurora, Who will contest no more ; Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
II.
Vermilion Ball that's
From lip to lip in Heaven ; Love's Couches cover-led : Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV.
Dear Offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And Jollie, plumpe Silenus ; Haste, haste, to decke the Haire Of th' only, sweetly Faire.
V.
See !
Rosie is her Bower,
Her floore is all this Flower ; Her Bed a Rosie nest By a Bed of Roses prest.
VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright Tresses ? Ah !
I have found I feare ; Because her Cheekes are neere.
Richard Lovelace
Other author posts
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I I' th' autumn of a summer's day, When all the winds got leave to play, TA, that fair ship, is lanch'd,
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LL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the Of thy chaste breasts, and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly
To Amarantha That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
Amarantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair As my curious hand or Hovering round thee, let it fly
To Althea From Prison
When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The gods, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty