ALBIUS Wake! Our mirth begins to die; Quicken it with tunes and wine. Raise your notes; you're out; fie, fie! This drowsiness is an ill sign. We banish him the choir of gods, That droops again: Then all are men, For here's not one but nods. . . . HERMOGENES Then, in a free and lofty strain, Our broken tunes we thus repair; CRISPINUS And we answer them again, Running division on the panting air; BOTH To celebrate this feast of sense, As free from scandal as offence. HERMOGENES Here is beauty for the eye; CRISPINUS For the ear sweet melody; HERMOGENES Ambrosiac odours, for the smell; CRISPINUS Delicious nectar, for the taste; BOTH For the touch, a lady's waist; Which doth all the rest excel. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUR MISSION by ELLEN M. HUNTINGTON GATES WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME by PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE JOSEPH'S COAT by GEORGE HERBERT EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: BATTERIES OUT OF AMMUNITION by RUDYARD KIPLING SNAKE by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE |