STEER, hither steer your winged pines,     All beaten mariners! Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,     A prey to passengers— Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.     Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips;     But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,     Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests:     For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring,     We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.     —Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.