English

CANT . VIII.

S PONSA .

O HAD we from one mother sprung,
Both at her breasts together hung!
Then should I meet Thee in the street,
With unreproved kisses greet,
And to my mother's house conduct,
Where Thou Thy sister shouldst instruct.
There would I spiced wines produce,
And my pomegranates' purple juice;
Thy left arm for my pillow plac'd,
And strictly with Thy right embrac'd.
You virgins, born in Sion's towers,

CANT. VII.

S PONSUS .

O PRINCESS , thou than life more dear,
How beautiful thy feet appear,
When they, with purple ribands bound,
In golden sandals print the ground!
Thy joints, like jewels, which impart
To wond'ring eyes the workman's art.
Thy navel, like a mazer, fill'd
With juice from rarest fruits distill'd.
Thy belly, like a heap of wheat,
With never fading lilies set.
Thy breasts two roes, new weaned, show,

Chorus .

F AIR virgin, parallel'd by none,
O whither's thy Beloved gone?
Direct our forward zeal, that we
May join in this pursuit with thee.

S PONSA .

B EHOLD , the More-than-life-desir'd
Down to His garden is retir'd;
There gathers flow'rs, feasts in the shade,
On beds of bruised spices laid.
Our mutual flame all flames exceeds:
My Dear among the lilies feeds.

S PONSUS .

S PONSUS .

M Y spouse, my sister, thou who art
The joy and treasure of My heart,
I to My garden have retir'd,
Reap'd spices which perfumes expir'd,
Sweet gums from trees profusely shed,
On dropping combs of honey fed;
Drunk morning milk with new-press'd wine:
O friends, whom like desires combine,
Eat, drink, drink freely; nor remove,
Till you be all inflam'd with love.

S PONSA .

Although I sleep, my passions wake,

S PONSUS .

How fair art thou, how wondrous fair!
Thy dove-like eyes in shades of hair,
Whose dangling curls appear like flocks
Of climbing goats from Gilead's rocks.
Thy teeth like sheep in their return
From Chison, wash'd and smoothly shorn.
None mark'd for barren, none of all,
But equal twins at once let fall.
Thy lips like threads of scarlet show,
Whence graceful accents sweetly flow,
Thy cheeks like Punic apples are,
Which blush beneath thy flowing hair.

S PONSA .

S TRETCH'D on my restless bed all night,
I vainly sought my soul's Delight.
Then rose, the city search'd: no street,
No angle my unwearied feet
Untraced left: yet could not find
The only Solace of my mind.
When lo! the watch, who walk the round,
Me in my soul's distemper found;
Of whom, with passion, I inquir'd,
Saw you the Man so much desir'd?
Nor many steps had farther past,
But found my Love, and held Him fast;
Fast held, till I the se-long sought

CANT. II.

S PONSUS .

I AM the lily of the vale,
The rose of Sharon's fragrant dale.
Lo, as th' unsullied lily shows
Which in a brake of brambles grows,
My love so darkens all that are
By erring men admir'd for fair.

S PONSA .

L O , as the tree which citrons bears
Amidst the barren shrubs appears,
So my Belov'd excells the race
Of man in ev'ry winning grace.
In His desired shade I rest,

CANT. I.

S PONSA .

Join Thy life-breathing lips to mine;
Thy love excells the joy of wine.
Thy odours, O how redolent!
Attract me with their pleasing scent:
These, sweetly flowing from Thy Name,
Our virgins with desire inflame.
O draw me, my Belov'd, and we
With winged feet will follow Thee.
Thy longing spouse at length, Great King,
Into Thy royal chamber bring:
Then shall our souls, entranc'd with joy,
In Thy due praise their zeal employ;

A RAMINTA .

Well , Ladies, am I right, or am I not?
Should not this foolish passion be forgot;
This fluttering something, scarce to be exprest,
Which pleads for coxcombs in each female breast?
How mortified he look'd! — and looks so still.
He really may repent — perhaps he will. —

M ODELY .

Will , A RAMINTA ? — Ladies, be so good ,
Man's made of frail materials, flesh and blood.
We all offend at some unhappy crisis,

Success makes people vain. — The maxim's true —
We all confess it — and not over new.
The veriest clown, who stumps along the streets,
And doffs his hat to each grave cit he meets,
Some twelvemonths hence, bedaub'd with livery lace,
Shall thrust his saucy flambeau in your face.

Not so our bard — though twice your kind applause
Has, on this fickle spot, espous'd his cause:
He owns, with gratitude, th' obliging debt;
Has twice been favour'd, and is modest yet.