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If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,
Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart; My pleasures, horror, music, tragic notes,
Tears in mine eyes, and sorrow at my heart; If this be love, to live a living death ; Then do I love, and draw this weary breath.
I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire ;
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire, Shall fail in force, their working not so strong.
Then beauty (now the burden of my song)
Must yield up all to tyrant time's desire;
When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass, .
Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue, Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was;
For what she was, she best shall find in you. Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But (Phænix like) shall make her live anew.
BEAUTY, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose:
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharg’d with burthen of thy years,
Shall bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, And when in beauty's lease, expir’d, appears
The date of age, the calends of our deathBut ah! no more--this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.
I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport (sweet maid) in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to cheer the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair,
Pity and smiles: must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.
Now each creature joys the other,
In the fall of silent showers ;
Hath her bosom deck'd with flowers.
Whilst the greatest torch of heaven..
With bright rays warms Flora’lap,
Cheering plants with fresher sap; ;!
My field of flowers quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.
O HAPPY golden age! .
Her voluntary fruits, free, without fees;
Nor for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile,
Th' eternal flow’ring spring,
Wherein liv'd every thing,
Not for no ship had brought
ill sought: : But only, for that name,
That idle name of wind, • That idol of deceit, that empty sound Calld honour, which became
The tyrant of the mind,
And so torments our nature without ground,
Was not yet vainly found :
Amidst the sweet delights
Of joyful amorous wights,
doth please. Then amongst flowers and springs,
Making delightful sport,
Sate lovers, without conflict, without shame, And nymphs and shepherds sings,
Mixing in wanton sort
Which from affection came. The naked virgin then
Her roses fresh reveals,
Which now her veil conceals, The tender apples in her bosom seen.
And oft in rivers clear
The lovers with their loves consorting were. Honour! thou first didst close
The spring of all delight,