An elegy? No, muse, it asks a strain Too loose, and cap'ring, for thy stricter vein. Thy thoughts did never melt in amorous fire Like glass, blown up, and fashioned by desire. The skilful mischief of a roving eye Could ne'er make price of thy white chastity. Then, leave these lighter numbers, to light brains, In whom the flame of every beauty reigns, Such, as in lust's wild forest love to range, Only pursuing constancy, in change. Let these in wanton feet dance out their souls: A further fury my raised spirit controls, Which raps me up to the true heaven of love; And conjures all my faculties to approve The glories of it. Now our muse takes wing, And now an epode, to deep ears, we sing. |