They that never had the use
Of the grape’s surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.
So they that are to love inclined,
Sway’d by chance, not choice or art,
To the first that’s fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
’Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.
To man, that was in th’ev’ning made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Those little drops of light;
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing t’ward the east did stand,
She entertain’d his eyes.
But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he ’gan despise;
His wonder was determined there,
And could no higher rise;
He neither might, nor wished to know
A more refulgent light;
For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employ’d his utmost sight.