Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/300

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WILLIAM BROWNE

He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begunTo benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes,Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing,All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing.Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old,Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.Welcome, welcome, then . . .
249
The Sirens' Song
STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,All beaten mariners!Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,  A prey to passengers—Perfumes far sweeter than the bestWhich make the Phœnix' urn and nest.
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