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