Classic Poem

CANT . VIII.

S PONSA .

O HAD we from one mother sprung,
Both at her breasts together hung!
Then should I meet Thee in the street,
With unreproved kisses greet,
And to my mother's house conduct,
Where Thou Thy sister shouldst instruct.
There would I spiced wines produce,
And my pomegranates' purple juice;
Thy left arm for my pillow plac'd,
And strictly with Thy right embrac'd.
You virgins, born in Sion's towers,
I charge you, by the Chief of powers,
That you a constant silence keep,
Nor, till He call, disturb His sleep.

Chorus .

W HO'S this, whose feet the hills ascend
From deserts, leaning on her friend?

S PONSA .

I MY Belov'd first raised thee
From under the pomecitron tree:
Thy careful mother, in that shade,
With anguish her fair belly laid.
Be I, O Thou my better part,
A seal imprest upon Thy heart.
May I Thy finger's signet prove,
For death is not more strong than love;
The grave not so insatiate,
As jealousies inflame debate,
Should falling clouds with floods conspire,
Their waters could not quench love's fire:
Nor all in nature's treasury
The freedom of affection buy.
We have a sister immature,
That hath no breasts, as yet obscure:
What ornaments shall we bestow,
When mortals her endowments know?

S PONSUS .

O N her, if strongly built to bear,
We will a silver palace rear;
Or, if a door, to deck the same,
Will leaves of carved cedar frame.

S PONSA .

I AM a firm foundation
For my Belov'd to build upon:
My breasts are tow'rs; I His delight,
His object and sole favourite.

S PONSUS .

L ATE in Baal-Hamon Solomon
Let forth his vineyard: ev'ry one,
For fruits and wines there yearly made,
A thousand silver shekels paid.

S PONSA .

T HIS vineyard, this, which I possess,
With diligence I daily dress.
Thou, Solomon, shalt have thy due:
Two hundred more remain for you
(Out of the surplus of our gains)
Who in our vineyard took such pains.

S PONSUS .

O THOU , that in the gardens liv'st,
And life-infusing counsel giv'st
To those that in thy songs rejoice,
To Me address thy cheerful voice.

S PONSA .

C OME , my Belov'd, O come away!
Love is impatient of delay:
Run, like a youthful hart, or roe
On hills where precious spices grow.