The Kiss
Oh that a joy so soon should waste!
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss
Might not forever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,
When the morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Oh, rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another,
It should be my wishing
That I might die kissing.
Ben Jonson.
Thou more than most sweet glove,
Unto my more sweet love,
Suffer me to store with kisses
This empty lodging that now misses
The pure rosy hand that wore thee,
Whiter than the kid that bore thee.
Thou art soft, but that was softer;
Cupid’s self hath kissed it ofter
Than e’er he did his mother’s doves,
Supposing her the queen of loves,
That was thy mistress,
Best of gloves.
Ben Jonson.