The taper burnt clear, yet no leaf would consume,
Nor wither, nor drop from the spray;
It just warm'd the buds, and increas'd their perfume,
Like the incense that's offered to May.
Hope ran from her covert, to Hymen she flew,
He smil'd, and to comfort her said;
"Your grove's in no danger, 'tis sacred to you
And a meek blue-eyed beautiful maid.