Chapter 27

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​⁠'We'll lose ourselves in Venus' Groves of Mirtle,

When every little bird shall be a Cupid,

And sing of Love and Youth; each wind that blows

And curls the velvet leaves shall breathe Delights,

The wanton springs shall call us to their Banks,

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​⁠And on the perfum'd Flowers we'll feast our Senses;

Yet we'll walk by, untainted of their Pleasures,

And, as they were pure Temples, we'll talk in them.'

The shadows h