The God of Love, who stood to hear him,

(The God of Love was always near him,)

Pleased and tickled with the sound,

Sneez'd aloud; and all around

The little Loves that waited by,
Bow'd, and bless'd the augury.
Acme, inflamed with what he said,
Rear'd her gently-bending head,
And her purple mouth, with joy,
Stretching to the delicious boy,
Twice, (and twice could scarce suffice,)
She kiss'd his drunken rolling eyes.

"My little life! my all!" said she,

"So may we ever servants be

"To this best god, and ne'er regain

"Our hated liberty again;

"So may thy passion last for me,

"As I a passion have for thee,

"Greater and fiercer much than can

"Be conceived by thee, a man ;

"Into my marrow it has gone,

"Fix'd and settled in the bone:

"It reigns not only in my heart,

"But runs, like life, through ev'ry part."

She spoke; the God of Love aloud
Sneez'd again, and all the crowd

Of little Loves, that waited by,

Bow'd, and bless'd the augury.

This good omen, thus from heav'n

Like a happy signal giv'n,

Their loves and lives (all four) embrace,

And hand in hand run all the race.

To poor Septimus, (who did now

Nothing else but Acme grow,)

Acme's bosom was alone

The whole world's imperial throne,

And to faithful Acme's mind

Septimus was all humankind.

10

If the Gods would please to be

But advised for once by me,

I'd advise 'em, when they spy

Any illustrious piety,

To reward her, if it be she,

To reward him, if it be he,

With such a husband, such a wife,

With Acme's and Septimus' life,

XIV.

ON A GIRDLE.

-WALLER.

THAT which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely dear.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round.

XV.

SLEEP.

SIR JOHN DENHAM.

MORPHEUS! the humble god that dwells In cottages and smoky cells,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down, And, though he fears no prince's frown,

Flies from the circle of a crown:

Come, I say, thou powerful god,

And thy leaden charming rod,

Dipped in the Lethean lake,

O'er his wakeful temples shake,

Lest he should sleep, and never wake.