Classic Poem

I saw a Vision yesternight
Enough to sate a Seeker's sight,
I wish'd my self a shaker there,
And her quick Pants my trembling Sphere.
It was a She so glittering bright,
You'd think her Soul an Adamite,
A Person of so rare a frame,
Her Body might be lin'd with th' same.
Beautie's chiefest Maid of Honour,
You may break Lent with looking on her.
Not the fair Abbess of the Skies
With all her Nunnery of Eyes
Can shew me such a glorious Prize.

And yet because 'tis more Renown
To make a shadow shine, she's brown,
A Brown for which Heaven would disband
The Galazie, and Stars be tann'd;
Brown by Reflexion, as her Eye
Deals out the Summer's Livery.
Old dormant Windows must confess
Her Beams, their glimmering Spectacles,
Struck with the Splendor of her face,
Do th' office of a Burning glass.
Now where such radiant Lights have shown,
No wonder if her Cheeks be grown
Sun-burnt, with Lustre of her own.

My Sight took pay; but (thank my Charms)
I now impale her in mine Arms
(Love's Compasses, confining you
Good Angels, to a Circle too.)
Is not the Universe strait lac'd,
When I can clasp it in the Waste?
My amorous Fold about thee hurl'd,
With Drake I girdle in the World;
I hoop the Firmament, and make
This my Embrace the Zodiack.
How could thy Center take my Sense,
When Admiration doth commence
At the extreme Circumference?

Now to the melting Kiss that sips
The Jellied Philtre of her Lips;
So Sweet there is no Tongue can prays't,
Till transsubstantiate with a Taste,
Inspir'd like Mahomet from above
By th' Billing of my Heavenly Dove.
Love prints his Signets in her Smacks,
Those ruddy drops of squeezing Wax,
Which wheresoever she imparts,
They're Privy-Seals to take up Hearts.
Our mouths encountring at the sport,
My slippery Soul had quitt the Fort,
But that she stopp'd the Sally-port.

Next to these Sweets, her Lips dispense
(As Twin-conserves of Eloquence)
The Sweet Perfume her Breath affords
Incorporating with her Words.
No Rosary this Votress needs,
Her very Syllables are Beads.
No sooner 'twixt those Rubies born,
But Jewels are in Ear-rings worn.
With what delight her Speech doth enter,
It is a Kiss oth' second Venter.
And I dissolve at what I hear,
As if an other Rosamond were
Couch'd in the Labyrinth of my ear.
Yet that's but a preludious Bliss

Two Souls Pickeering in a Kiss.
Embraces do but draw the Line,
'Tis storming that must take her in.
When Bodies joyn, and Vict'ry hovers
'Twixt the equal fluttering Lovers
This is the Game; make stakes, my Dear!
Heark, how the sprightly Chanticlere
(That Baron Tell-clock of the Night)
Sounds Boute-sel to Cupid's Knight.
Then have at all, the Pass is got,
For coming off, oh name it not!
Who would not die upon the spot?