Among thy fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss?
I shall resolve ye what it is:
It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, all cherry-red,
By love and warm desires fed,
CHOR. And makes more soft the bridal bed.
It is an active flame, that flies
First to the babies of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies,
CHOR. And stills the bride, too, when she cries.
Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks and flies, now here, now there:
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,
CHOR. And here, and there, and every where.
Has it a speaking virtue?
How speaks it, say?
Do you but this,
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss;
CHOR. And this Love's sweetest language is.
Has it a body?
Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings
CHOR. Love honey yields, but never stings.