is feete.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amid my tender breast: My kisses are his daily feast : And yet he robs me of my rest.
Strike I my lute—he tunes the string, He music plays, if so I sing; He lends me every living thing, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting.
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod; He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; O, Cupid so thou pity me, I will not wish to part from thee.
Lodge.
Needful auxiliaries are our friends, to give To social man true relish of himself. Full on ourselves descending in a line, Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight: Delight intense is taken by rebound; Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Young.
