Lily
7
When we have run our Passion’s Heat,
Love hither makes his best Retreat.
The Gods, who mortal Beauty Chase,
Still in a Tree did end their Race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might Laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed
What wond’rous Life in this I lead!
Ripe Apples drop about my Head.
The Luscious Clusters of the Vine
Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine.
The Nectarine, and curious Peach,
Into my Hands themselves do reach.
Stumbling on Melons, as I pas,
Insnar’d with Flow’rs, I fall on Grass.
Mean while the Mind, from Pleasure less,
Withdraws into its Happyness:
The Mind, that Ocean where each Kind
Does straight its own Resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other Worlds, and other Seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green Thought in a green Shade.