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 happy: these things be But shadows of felicity. Give me a wench about thirteen, Already voted to the queen Of lust and lovers; whose soft hair, Fann'd with the breath of gentle air, O'erspreads her shoulders like a tent, And is her veil and ornament; Whose tender touch will make the blood Wild in the aged and the good; Whose kisses, fast'ned to the mouth Of threescore years and longer slouth, Renew the age; and whose bright eye Obscures those lesser lights of sky; Whose snowy breasts (if we may call That snow, that never melts at all) Makes Jove invent a new disguise, In spite of Juno's jealousies; Whose every part doth re-invite The old decayed appetite; And in whose sweet embraces I May melt myself to lust, and die. This is true bliss, and I confess There is no other happiness. |