WILLIAM BROWNE

He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then

He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then

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

��249 The Sirens' Song

STEER, hither steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners' Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.

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