The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not withered be. Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, ["Underwoods." 1640.] A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING. Let it not your wonder move, But be glad, as soon with me, Till she be the reason, why, HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID. Noblest Charis, you that are Of her face, and made to rise, Both her brows, bent like my bow; By her looks I do her know, As the bath your verse discloses In her cheeks, of milk and roses; Such as oft I wanton in: And, above her even chin, Have you placed the bank of kisses, Where, you say, men gather blisses, |