A Song To the Maskers

Come down and dance ye in the toil
  Of pleasures to a heat;
But if to moisture, let the oil
  Of roses be your sweat.

Not only to yourselves assume
  These sweets, but let them fly
From this to that, and so perfume
  E’en all the standers by;

As goddess Isis, when she went
  Or glided through the street,
Made all that touched her, with her scent,
  And whom she touched, turn sweet.

Published in Hesperides

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