Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ENTERTAINMENT TO PHYLLIS, by CHARLES COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ENTERTAINMENT TO PHYLLIS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Now phoebus is gone down to sleep
Last Line: Adore thee for night's horned queen.
Subject(s): Love


Now Phoebus is gone down to sleep
In cold embraces of the deep,
And Night's pavilion in the sky,
(Crown'd with a starry canopy)
Erected stands, whence the pale Moon
Steals out to her Endymion;
Over the meads, and o'er the floods,
Thorough the ridings of the woods,
Th' enamour'd Huntress scours her ways,
And through Night's veil her horns displays.
I have a bower for my Love,
Hid in the centre of a grove
Of aged oaks, close from the sight
Of all the prying eyes of Night.
The polish'd walls of marble be
Pillaster'd round with porphyry,
Casements of crystal to transmit
Night's sweets to thee, and thine to it,
Fine silver locks to ebon doors,
Rich gilded roofs, and cedar floors,
With all the objects may express
A pleasing solitariness.
Within my Love shall find each room,
New furnished from the silk-worms' loom,
Vessels of the true antique mould,
Cups cut in amber, myrrh and gold;
Quilts blown with roses, beds with down,
More white than Atlas' aged crown,
Carpets where flowers woven grow,
Only thy sweeter steps to strew,
Such as may emulation bring,
To the wrought mantle of the Spring.
There silver lamps shall silent shine,
Supplied by oils of jessamine,
And mists of odours shall arise
To air thy little Paradise.
I have such fruits too, for thy taste,
As teeming Autumn never grac't,
Apples, as round, as thine own eyes;
Or, as thy sister beauties' prize,
Smooth, as thy snowy skin, and sleek
And ruddy as the morning's cheek,
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple wear,
The spritely matrons of the year,
Such, as Lyaeus never bare,
About his drowsy brows, so fair,
So plump, so large, so ripe, so good,
So full of flavour, and of blood.
There's water in a grot hard by,
To quench thee, when with dalliance dry,
Sweet, as the milk of sand-red cow,
Brighter than Cynthia's silver bow,
Cold, as the goddess' self e'er was,
And clearer than thy looking glass.
But oh! the sum of all delight
For which the day submits to night,
Is that my Phyllis thou wilt find,
When we are in embraces twin'd.
Pleasures that so have tempted Jove;
To all his masquerades of love;
For them the Prince his purple waives,
And strips him naked as his slaves.
'Tis they that teach humanity
The thing we love, the reason why:
Before we live; but ne'er till then,
Are females women; or males men:
This is the way, and this the trade,
That does perfect what nature made,
Then go; but first thy beauties screen,
Lest they that revel on the lawns,
The Nymphs, the Satyrs, and the Fawns,
Adore thee for Night's horned Queen.





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