William Drummond (Уильям Драммонд)
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Who hath not seen into her saffron bed The morning's goddess mildly her repose, Or her, of whose pure blood first sprang the rose, Lull'd in a slumber by a myrtle shade; Who hath not seen that sleeping white and red Makes Phoebe look so pale, which she did close In that Ionian hill, to ease her woes, Which only lives by nectar kisses fed; Come but and see my lady sweetly sleep, The sighing rubies of those heavenly lips, The Cupids which breast's golden apples keep, Those eyes which shine in midst of their eclipse, And he them all shall see, perhaps, and prove She waking but persuades, now forceth love.
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