212. A Hymn to the Graces
When I love, as some have toldLove I shall, when I am old,O ye Graces! make me fitFor the welcoming of it!Clean my rooms, as temples be,To entertain that deity;Give me words wherewith to woo,Suppling and successful too;Winning postures; and withal,Manners each way musical;Sweetness to allay my sourAnd unsmooth behaviour:For I know you have the skillVines to prune, though not to kill;And of any wood ye see,You can make a Mercury.