A Hymne to the Graces.

WHen I love, (as some have told,
Love I shall when I am old)
O ye Graces I Make me fit
For the welcoming of it.
Clean my Roomes, as Temples be,
T'entertain that Deity.
Give me words wherewith to wooe'
Suppling and successefull too:
Winning postures; and withall,
Manners each way musicall:
Sweetnesse to allay my sowre
And unsmooth behaviour.
For I know you have the skill
Vines to prune, though not to kill,
And of any wood ye see,
You can make a Mercury.