EUPHEMUS

Joy, joy to mortals, the rejoicing fires Of gladness, smile in your dilated hearts! While Love presents a world of chased desires, Which may produce a harmony of parts! Love is the right affection of the mind, The noble appetite of what is best: Desire of union with the thing designed, But in fruition of it cannot rest. The Father plenty is, the Mother want. Porus, and Penia. Plenty the beauty, which it wants, draws; Want yields it self: affording what is scant. So, both affections are the union's cause. But, rest not here. For Love hath larger scopes, New joys, new pleasures, of as fresh a date As are his minutes: and, in him no Hope's Are pure, but those he can perpetuate. He goes up to the State. To you that are by excellence a Queen! The top of beauty! but, of such and air, As, only by the minds eye, may be seen Your interwoven lines of good, and fair! Vouchsafe to grace Loves triumph here, to night, Through all the streets of your Callipolis; Which by the splendour of your rays made bright The seat, and region of all beauty is. Love, in perfection, longeth to appear, But prays of favour, he be not called on, Till all the suburbs, and the skirts be clear Of perturbations, and infection gone. Then will he flow forth, Like a rich perfume Into your nostrils! or some sweeter found Of melting Music, that shall not consume Within the ear, but run the mazes round. The Queen, of what is wonder, in the place! The centre of proportion —! Grace? And by reflecting of them fill this space.