ALBIUS Wake! Our mirth begins to die; Quicken it with tunes and wine. Raise your notes; you're out; fie, fie! This drowsiness is an ill sign. We banish him the choir of gods, That droops again: Then all are men, For here's not one but nods. . . . HERMOGENES Then, in a free and lofty strain, Our broken tunes we thus repair; CRISPINUS And we answer them again, Running division on the panting air; BOTH To celebrate this feast of sense, As free from scandal as offence. HERMOGENES Here is beauty for the eye; CRISPINUS For the ear sweet melody; HERMOGENES Ambrosiac odours, for the smell; CRISPINUS Delicious nectar, for the taste; BOTH For the touch, a lady's waist; Which doth all the rest excel. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMITATION OF POPE: A COMPLIMENT TO THE LADIES by WILLIAM BLAKE THE LIVING DEAD by RALPH CHAPLIN SWITZERLAND by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES CHOEPHOROI: ORESTES GOES MAD by AESCHYLUS FUTILITY by CHARLOTTE BLAISING LOVE AFTER SORROW by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |