CHLORIS AND HYLAS (MADE TO A SARABAND) by EDMUND WALLER

Hylas, O Hylas! why sit we mute
Now that each Bird saluteth the Spring?
Wind up the slackned strings of thy Lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing:
For Love their Breasts does fill with such a fire,
That whatso'er is fair, moves thy desire.
Of various flowers the Bees do compose,
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of Violet, Woodbind, Pink or Rose:
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.
Could we but know the Language they use,
They would instruct us better in Love,
And reprehend thy inconstant Muse:
For Love their Breasts does fill with such a fire,
That what they once do chuse, bounds their desire.
Which the warm Season hither does bring;
Time from your self does further remove
You, than the Winter from the gay Spring:
She that like lightning shin'd while her face lasted,
The Oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.

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