Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

WHEN on thy lip my soul I breathe,

Which there meets thine,

Freed from their fetters by this death,

Our subtle forms combine:

Thus without bonds of sense they move,

And like two cherubim converse by love.

Spirits to chains of earth confin’d

Discourse by sense;

But ours, that are by flames refin’d,

With those weak ties dispense.

Let such in words their minds display:

We in a kiss our mutual thoughts convey.

But since my soul from me doth fly,

To thee retir’d,

Thou canst not both retain; for I

Must be with one inspir’d;

Then, Dearest, either justly mine

Restore, or in exchange let me have thine.

Yet if thou dost return mine own,

O tak’t again!

For ’tis this pleasing death alone

Gives ease unto my pain.

Kill me once more, or I shall find

Thy pity than thy cruelty less kind.