Classic Poem

Stand off, and let me take the Air,
Why should the smoke pursue the fair? Boy .
My Face is smoke, thence may be guest
What Flames within have scorch'd my breast. Nymph .
Thy flaming Love I cannot view
For the dark Lanthorn of thy Hue. Boy .
And yet this Lanthorn keeps Love's Taper
Surer than your's that's of white Paper.
What ever Midnight can be here,
The Moon-shine of your Face will clear. Nymph .
My Moon of an Eclipse is 'fraid;
If thou should'st interpose thy shade. Boy .
Yet one thing, Sweet-heart, I will ask,
Take me for a new fashion'd Mask. Nymph .
Done: but my Bargain shall be this,
I'le throw my Mask off when I kiss. Boy .
Our curl'd Embraces shall delight
To checker Limbs with black and white. Nymph .
Thy Ink, my Paper, make me guess
Our Nuptial bed will prove a Press,
And in our Sports, if any came,
They'l read a wanton Epigram. Boy .
Why should my Black thy Love impair?
Let the dark Shop commend the Ware;
Or if thy Love from black forbears,
I'l strive to wash it off with Tears. Nymph .
Spare fruitless Tears, since thou must needs
Still wear about thy mourning Weeds.
Tears can no more affection win,
Than wash thy Aethiopian Skin.