His falling temples you have rear'd,
The withered garlands ta'en away,
His altars kept from the decay
That envy wished and nature fear'd;
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty's expense,
As love to acquit such excellence
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he, the Deity
To whom all lovers are design'd
That would their better objects find,
Among which faithful troop am I,
Who as an offering at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat,
To light upon a love of mine,
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t' adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want.
Our last quotation is well known, but many, we fear, while they listen to the beautiful strain, forget that it is one of the lighter efforts of the learned Jonson.
SONG TO CLELIA.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sip
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it in hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon dids't only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows, it smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
