Favonius, the milder breath o’ th’ Spring,
When proudly bearing on his softer wing
Rich odours, which from the Panchean groves
He steals, as by the phoenix-pyre he moves,
Profusely doth his sweeter theft dispense
To the next rose’s blushing innocence;
But from the grateful flower, a richer scent
He doth receive than he unto it lent.
Then, laden with his odour s richest store,
He to thy breath hastes, to which these are poor;
Which, whilst the amorous wind to steal essays,
He like a wanton lover 'bout thee plays,
And sometimes cooling thy soft cheek doth lie,
And sometimes burning at thy flaming eye:
Drawn in at last by that breath we implore;
He now returns far sweeter than before,
And rich by being robb’d, in thee he finds
The burning sweets of pyres, the cool of winds.