The second Rapture.

NO worldling, no, tis not thy gold,
Which thou dost use but to behold,
Nor fortune, honour, nor long life,
Children, or friends, nor a good wife,
That makes thee haypy; these things be
But shaddowes of felicitie.
Give me a wench about thirteene,
Already voted to the Queene
Of lust and lovers, whose soft haire,
Fann'd with the breath of gentle aire
O're spreads her shoulders like a tent,
And is her vaile and ornament:
Whose tender touch, will make the blood
Wild in the aged, and the good.
Whose kisses fastned to the mouth,
Of threescore yeares and longer slouth,
Renew the age, and whose bright eye,
Obscure those lesser lights of skie,
Whose snowy breasts (if we may call
That snow, that never melts at all)
Makes Jove invent a new disguise,
In spite of Iunoes jealousies:
Whose every part doth re-invite▪
The old decayed appetite:
And in whose sweet imbraces I,
May melt myselfe to lust, and die.
This is true blisse, and I confesse,
There it no other happinesse,