Thy vest I'd be, to guard with care
Those heaving breasts, and nestle there.
Oh! would I were a limpid wave,
Thy soft and beauteous limbs to lave;
Thy perfumed oil, that I might share
The glory of thy golden hair!
Or, dearer still, that slender zone,
Which makes thy beauties all its own:
Thy pearly chain, that shines so fair,
But cannot with thy neck compare:
Thy very sandal I would be,[1]
To kiss the foot that trod on me!
ODE XXI.—SUMMER.
Bring, maidens, bring a well-mix'd bowl,
And let me slake my thirsty soul;
For, scorch'd beneath this sultry sky,
My spirits sink—I faint—I die.
This garland, late so fresh and fair,[2]
I twined amid my curling hair;
But all its faded flow'rets now
Have wither'd on my burning brow.
Bring fresher wreaths my head to shade;
Bring others still when those shall fade.
But, oh! what ease can wine impart
When love's fierce flame consumes the heart?
- ↑ This ode has been imitated by many succeeding writers; and in our immortal bard, who needed no copy but nature, the following passage can only be said to present a remarkable coincidence:—
"See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!"
Romeo and Juliet, act 2, scene 2.
- ↑ The custom of wearing garlands of flowers at entertainments has already been mentioned.
