Sweet is my lady's body; damask rose,
Nor silver lily, nor pale asphodel,
No burning myrrh, no real or fabled smell,
Can match the scent that from her bosom blows.
And like her sister flowers, the warmer grows
The time of June or love, the clearer well
Those airy doors, till the senses swell
And pine with greed for that which they disclose.
Yet sweeter still that soft and dewy gush
Of misty fragrance, her ethereal breath,
Whose taste would lull the weariest pang of death.
Think of my favor! I who sometimes push
Her leave to license; draining all she hath,
In love's wild riot or in love's deep hush.