William Drummond of Hawthornden

My sweet did sweetly sleep, And on her rosy face Stood tears of pearl, which beauty’s self did weep; I, wond’ring at her grace, Did all amaz’d remain, When Love said, “Fool, can looks thy wishes crown? Time past comes not again.” Then did I me bow down, And kissing her fair breast, lips, cheeks, and eyes Prov’d here on earth the joys of paradise.

Like the Idalian queen, Her hair about her eyne, With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flowers Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The Graces naked danced about the place, The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed, The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wished me in her hand.

Though I with strange desire To kiss those rosy lips am set on fire, Yet will I cease to crave Sweet touches in such store, As he who long before From Lesbia them in thousands did receive. Heart mine, but once me kiss, And I by that sweet bliss Even swear to cease you to importune more; Poor one no number is; Another word of me ye shall not hear After one kiss, but still one kiss, my dear.

I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In Time’s great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days; I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays, With toil of spright which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds of few or none are sought, And that nought lighter is than airy praise. I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords; That love a jarring is of minds’ accords, Where sense and will invassal reason’s power: Know what I list, this all can not me move, But that, O me! I both must write and love.