STEER, hither steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners ! Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers— Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. —Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
