RIGHT art thou who wouldst rather be A doorkeeper in Love's fair house, Than lead the wretched revelry Where fools at swinish troughs carouse. But do not boast of being least; And if to kiss thy Mistress' skirt Amaze thy brain, scorn not the Priest Whom greater honours do not hurt. Stand off and gaze, if more than this Be more than thou canst understand, Revering him whose power of bliss, Angelic, dares to seize her hand, Or whose seraphic love makes flight To the apprehension of her lips; And think, the sun of such delight From thine own darkness takes eclipse. And, wouldst thou to the same aspire, This is the art thou must employ, Live greatly; so shalt thou acquire Unknown capacities of joy. |