For that lovely face will fail;
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done
Than summer's rain or winter's sun;
Most fleeting, when it is most dear;
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here.
These curious locks so aptly twin'd,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow
White, and cold as winter's snow.
That eye which now is Cupid's nest
Will prove his grave, and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose,
Nor lilly shall be found, nor rose ;
And what will then become of all
Those, whom now you servants call?
Like swallows, when your summer's done,
They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.
Then wisely chuse one to your friend,
Whose love may (when your beauties end)
Remain still firm: be provident,
And think, before the summer's spent,
Of following winter; like the ant
In plenty hoard for time of scant.
Cull out amongst the multitude
Of lovers, that seek to intrude
Into your favour, one that may
Love for an age, not for a day;
One that will quench your youthful fires,
And feed in age your hot desires.
For when the storms of time have mov'd Waves on that cheek which was belov'd; When a fair lady's face is pin'd,
And yellow spread where red once shin'd;
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her,
Love may return, but lovers never:
And old folks say there are no pains
Like itch of love in aged veins.
Oh love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not lose this present minute:
For time and age will work that wrack,
Which time nor age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each year fresh skin resumes,
And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.
Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason;
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But crop in time your beauty's flow'r :
Which will away, and doth together
Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.
IN Nature's pieces still I see
Some errour that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was fram'd by hands far more divine;
For she hath every beauteous line:
Yet I had been far happier
Had Nature, that made me, made her;
Then likeness might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates:
Yet I confess I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of Heaven for her one beauty more;
She hath too much divinity for me:
Ye gods, teach her some more humanity!
LADIES, fly from love's smooth tale,
Oaths steep'd in tears do oft prevail;
Grief is infectious, and the air
Inflam'd with sighs will blast the fair:
Then stop your ears when lovers cry,
Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye
Shall with a sorrowing tear repay
That pity which you cast away.
Young men, fly, when beauty darts
Amorous glances at your hearts:
The fixt mark gives the shooter aim,
And ladies' looks have power to maim;
Now 'twixt their lips, now in their eyes,
Wrapt in a smile, or kiss, love lies;
Then fly betimes, for only they
Conquer love that run away.
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If ev'ry sweet, and ev'ry grace
Must fly from that forsaken face:
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever, free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What still being gather'd still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED.
KNOW, Celia, (since thou art so proud,)
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown:
Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd
Of common beauties, liv'd unknown,
Had not my verse exhal'd thy name,
And with it impt* the wings of Fame.
*This technical phrase is borrowed from falconry. Falconers say, To imp a feather in a hawk's wing, i. e. to add a new piece to an old stump.
That killing power is none of thine,
gave
it to thy voice and eyes:
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere
Lightning on him that fix'd thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate:
Let fools thy mystic forms adore,
Ill know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales,
Knew her themselves through all her veils
ETERNITY OF LOVE PROTESTED.
How ill doth he deserve a lover's name
Whose pale weak flame
His heat, in spight of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper set on fire,
Burn and expire!
True love can never change his seat,
Nor did he ever love that could retreat.
That noble flame, which my breast keeps alive, Shall still survive
Nor shall my love die when my body's dead; That shall wait on me to the lower shade, And never fade.
My very ashes in their urn
Shall, like a hallow'd lamp, for ever burn.
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