Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come,--but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to shew--
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath
I long to kiss the image of my death!

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Hark, happy lovers, hark!
This first and last of joys,
This sweetener of annoys,
This nectar of the gods,
You call a kiss, is with itself at odds:
And half so sweet is not,
In equal measure got
At light of sun as it is in the dark:
Hark, happy lovers, hark!

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NOTES OF A READER

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