1 Among thy fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss?
2 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.
2 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.
2 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.
1 Has it a speaking virtue? 2 Yes.
1 How speaks it, say? 2 Do you but this,
Part your join’d lips, then speaks your kiss;
CHOR. And this Love’s sweetest language is.
1 Has it a body? 2 Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings
CHOR. Love honey yields, but never stings.