This, then, is Pleasure's bower, Where every thing can please; Her cushions are of silk, She plays on ivory keys. She gives her hand to kiss, Before I leave her bower: 'I thank you, pretty one, For this light hour.' Out in the garden now Young Joy sits all alone; The cushion she sits on Is nothing but a stone; Her naked lips are all The music she can play; She gives her mouth to kiss – Sweet Joy, I stay! |