A Song to the Maskers

Come down and dance ye in the toilOf pleasures to a heat;But if to moisture, let the oilOf roses be your sweat.

Not only to yourselves assumeThese sweets, but let them flyFrom this to that, and so perfumeE'en all the standers by;

As goddess Isis, when she wentOr glided through the street,Made all that touched her, with her scent,And whom she touched, turn sweet.