Charles Cotton (1630–1687)

JOIN once again, my Celia, join

Thy rosy lips to these of mine,

Which, though they be not such,

Are full as sensible of bliss,

That is, as soon can taste a kiss,

As thine of softer touch.

Each kiss of thine creates desire,

Thy odorous breath inflames Love’s fire,

And wakes the sleeping coal:

Such a kiss to be I find

The conversation of the mind,

And whisper of the soul.

Thanks, sweetest, now thou’rt perfect grown,

For by this last kiss I’m undone;

Thou breathest silent darts.

Henceforth each little touch will prove

A dangerous stratagem in love,

And thou wilt blow up hearts.