Poetry Archives

Ye blushing virgins happy are
  In the chaste nunnery of her breasts—
For he’d profane so chaste a fair,
  Whoe’er should call them Cupid’s nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
  How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
  Are sweeter than i’ th’ open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
  From the rude blasts of wanton breath!—
Each hour more innocent and pure,
  Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,
  Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
  Whose breast hath marble been to me.