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 is feete.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amid my tender breast: My kisses are his daily feast : And yet he robs me of my rest.

Strike I my lute—he tunes the string, He music plays, if so I sing; He lends me every living thing, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting.

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod; He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; O, Cupid so thou pity me, I will not wish to part from thee.

Lodge.

Needful auxiliaries are our friends, to give To social man true relish of himself. Full on ourselves descending in a line, Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight: Delight intense is taken by rebound; Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.

Young.