Classic Poem

The Song in the second Act.

Not the Phœnix in his death
Nor those banckes where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow ,
Yeeld a perfume like her breath.
 But ô! Marriage makes the spell:
 And tis poyson if I smell.

The twin beauties of the skies
(When the halfe suncke saylors hast,
To rend saile and cut their mast)
Shine not welcome as her eyes.
 But those beames, then stormes more blacke,
 If they point at me I wracke.

Then for feare of such a fire,
Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite:
I must from my life retire.
 But ô no! for if her eye
 Warme me not; I freeze, and dye.

The Song in the second Act.

Not the Phœnix in his death
Nor those banckes where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow ,
Yeeld a perfume like her breath.
 But ô! Marriage makes the spell:
 And tis poyson if I smell.

The twin beauties of the skies
(When the halfe suncke saylors hast,
To rend saile and cut their mast)
Shine not welcome as her eyes.
 But those beames, then stormes more blacke,
 If they point at me I wracke.

Then for feare of such a fire,
Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite:
I must from my life retire.
 But ô no! for if her eye
 Warme me not; I freeze, and dye.