Celia the Fair

My goddess Lydia, heav'nly fair,

As lilies sweet, as soft as air;

Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charms,

And to my love give fresh alarms.

O let me gaze on those bright eyes,

Though sacred lightning from them flies:

Show me that soft, that modest grace,

Which paints with charming red thy face.

Give me ambrosia in a kiss,

That I may rival Jove in bliss;

That I may mix my soul with thine,

And make the pleasure all divine.

O hide thy bosom's killing white,

(The milky way is not so bright)

Lest you my ravish'd soul oppress,

With beauty's pomp and sweet excess.

Why draw'st thou from the purple flood

Of my kind heart the vital blood?

Thou art all over endless charms;

O! take me, dying, to thy arms.