Hymn To The Grace

When I love, as some have told

Love I shall, when I am old,

O ye Graces!  make me fit

For the welcoming of it!

Clean my rooms, as temples be,

To entertain that deity;

Give me words wherewith to woo,

Suppling and successful too;

Winning postures; and withal,

Manners each way musical;

Sweetness to allay my sour

And unsmooth behaviour:

For I know you have the skill

Vines to prune, though not to kill;

And of any wood ye see,

You can make a Mercury.