Stances de Monsieur Theophile

When thy nak'd Arm thou see'st me kiss
Upon the snowy Sheet display'd,
Which whiter than the Linnen is;
And, when my glowing Hand's betray'd,
Wandring about thy Paps: Thy Sense may prove,
Chloris, that with a burning heat I love.

As Zealots Eyes to Heaven tend,
So mine Eyes unto thine are turn'd,
When to thy Couch my Knees I bend,
With thousands of warm Passions burn'd,
My Lips from whispering Murmurs then are free,
And suffer my Delights to sleep with thee.

Morpheus glad of the surprise,
In his black Empire thee detains;
And hides from seeing me thine Eyes
With so dull, so heavy Chains,
That thy soft slumber'd-charmed Spirits lye
Dumb, without murmur at his Tyranny.

In breathing her perfume the Rose,
In shooting forth his heat the Day,
The Chariot, where Diana goes,
And Naiad's, when in Flouds they play,
The silent Graces in a Picture to
Make more of noise, than thy soft Breathings do

Then by thee did I breathe a Sigh,
And when thy rest I had descryed;
The sweet Repose, that seal'd thine Eye:
With Passion then; Oh Heaven! I cryed.
How canst thou from such excellent Limbs, as these
Extract so great an ill, as my Disease.