A Song To The Maskers.

Come down and dance ye in the toil Of pleasures to a heat; But if to moisture, let the oil Of roses be your sweat. Not only to yourselves assume These sweets, but let them fly From this to that, and so perfume E'en all the standers by; As goddess Isis, when she went Or glided through the street, Made all that touched her, with her scent, And whom she touched, turn sweet.