The poem
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.