A Song to the Maskers.

COme down, and dance ye in the toyle
Of pleasures, to a Heate;
But if to moisture, Let the oyle
Of Roses be your sweat.

Not only to your selves assume
These sweets, but let them fly;
From this, to that, and so Perfume
E'ne all the standers by.

As Goddesse Isis (when she went,
Or glided through the street)
Made all that touch't her with her scent,
And whom she touch't, turne sweet.