The Syrens Song

Steer hither, steer your winged pines,
all beaten mariners,
Here lie loves undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the phoenix'urn and nest
Fear not your ships
nor any to oppose you save our lips
but come on shore
where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

But come on shore 
where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts
where never storms arise
exchange and be awhile our guests 
for stars gaze on our eyes
the compass love shall hourly sing
and as he goes about the ring
we will not miss
to tell each point he nameth with a kiss

Then come on shore
where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

			William browne of Tavistock