George Chapman

Muses that sing love's sensual empery, And lovers kindling your enraged fires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; You that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory, And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love, and honour's complete history. Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind, But dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtue’s only tire, The reapèd harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire, Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The fields his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day’s outfacing face; And all thy crownèd flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.