ON a still, silent night, scarce could I number One of the clock, but that a golden slumber Had lock'd my senses fast, and carri'd me Into a world of blest felicity, I know not how: first to a garden, where The apricock, the cherry, and the pear, The strawberry and plum, were fairer far Than that eye-pleasing fruit that caus'd the jar Betwixt the goddesses, and tempted more Than fair Atlanta's ball, though gilded o'er. I gaz'd awhile on these, and presently A silver stream ran softly gliding by, Upon whose banks, lilies more white than snow New fall'n from heaven, with violets mix'd, did grow; Whose scent so chaf'd the neighbour air, that you Would surely swear Arabic spices grew Not far from thence, or that the place had been With musk prepar'd to entertain Love's Queen. Whilst I admir'd, the river pass'd away, And up a grove did spring, green as in May When April had been moist; upon whose bushes The pretty robins, nightingales, and thrushes Warbled their notes so sweetly, that my ears Did judge at least the music of the spheres. But here my gentle dream conveyed me Into the place where I most long'd to see, My mistress' bed; who, some few blushes past And smiling frowns, contented was at last To let me touch her neck; I, not content With that, slipp'd to her breast, thence lower went, And then---I awak'd. |