Classic Poem

X.
What harvest halfe so sweet is,
As still to reape the kisses
Growne ripe in sowing?
And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?
Kisse then, my harvest Queene,
Full garners heaping;
Kisses, ripest when th' are greene,
Want onely reaping.

The Dove alone expresses
Her fervencie in kisses,
Of all most loving:
A creature as offencelesse
As those things that are sencelesse
And void of moving.
Let us so love and kisse,
Though all envie us:
That which kinde, and harmelesse is,
None can denie us.