Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/287

 He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, then

He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then  247. The Sirens' Song

Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines, All beaten mariners! Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers— Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phœnix' urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. —Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.