Amorphus his Mistris Glove
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 ware thee, Whiter than the kid that bare thee:
Thou art soft but that was softer
Cupids self hath kissed it ofter Than e'er he did his mothers doves
Supposing Her the Queene of Loves
That was thy mistress
Best of Gloves.
By Amorphus,
in Cynthia's Revels (4.3.252-263),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 142, f. 45v
Apollo if with ancient rites And due devotions I have ever hung
Elaborate Peans on thy golden shrine,
Or sung thy triumphs in a lofty strain
Fit for a theatre of Gods to hear.
And thou the other son of mughty Jove, Cyllenian Mercury sweet Majas joy lb inside canonical here If in the busy tumults of the mindMy path thou ever hast illumined For which thine altars I have oft perfumedAnd decked thy statue with discoloured flowers: now.
By Crites,
in Cynthia's Revels (4.6.59-69),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 142, f. 45v
When hath Diana , like an envious wretch That glitters only to his soothed self, Denying to the world the precious use Of hoarded wealth, withheld her friendly aid? Monthly we spend our still- repairèd shine,And not forbid our virgin-waxen torch To burn and blaze while nutriment doth last; That once consumed, out of Jove’s treasury A new we take, and stick it in our sphere
By Cynthia,
in Cynthia's Revels (5.6.19-27),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 142, f. 45v