IF
F the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every 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.
HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
SK me why I send you here,
This firstling of the winter year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.
Ask me why this flow'r doth shew
So yellow, green, and sickly too,
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.
A MONGST the myrtles as I walked,
Love and my sighs thus intertalked:
"Tell me (said I, in deep distress) "Where may I find my shepherdess?" "Thou fool (said Love), know'st thou not this, " In every thing that's good she is ? "In yonder tulip go and seek, "There may'st thou find her lip, her cheek:
"In yon enamell'd pansy by,
"There thou shalt have her curious eye;
"In bloomy peach, in rosy bud,
"There wave the streamers of her blood."
"'Tis true," said I; and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts a union:
But, on a sudden, all was gone,
With that I stopt; said Love, "These be,
"Fond man, resemblances of thee.
"And, as these flow'rs, thy joys shall die,
"Ev'n in the twinkling of an eye:
"And all thy hopes of her shall wither
"Like those short sweets thus knit together."
UNGRATEFUL 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.
That killing power is none of thine,
I 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 borrow'd 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,
I'll know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales,
Know her themselves through all her veils.
NOW that the Winter's gone, the Earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes; and now no more the
Frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream:
But the warm Sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a second birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.
Now, do a choir of Chirping Minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring;
The valleys, hills and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the Morning of the longed-for May.
Now all things smile! only my Love doth lour!
Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the pow'r
To melt the marble ice that still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and make her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fireside: but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep,
Under a sycamore; and all things keep
Time with the Season. Only she doth carry
June in her eyes; in her heart, January!
ASK me no more-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose?
For in your beauties' orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more-whither do stray
The golden atoms of the Day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more-whither doth haste
The Nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet-dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more-where those Stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you, at last, she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies!
DEATH's FINAL CONQUEST.
THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings. Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
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