Chlorus and Hilas. Made to a Sarabran.

HIlas, ô Hilas, why sit we mute,
Now that each Bird saluteth the Spring▪
Wind up the slackned strings of thy Lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing:
For love thy Brest does fill with such a fire,
That whatso'er is fair, moves thy desire.
Sweetest you know, the sweetest of things,
Of various flowers the Bees do compose,
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of Violet, Woodbind, Pink or Rose:
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.
Hilas, the Birds which chant in this Grove,
Could we but know the Language they use,
They would instruct us better in Love,
…nd reprehend thy inconstant Muse:
For Love their Breasts does fill with such a fire,
That what they once do chuse, bounds their desire.
Chloris, this change the Birds do approve,
Which the warm Season hither does bring;
Time from your self does further remove
…ou, than the Winter from the gay Spring:
She that like lightning shin'd while her face lasted,
The Oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.