TO LYDIA.

You boast, that you are beautiful; and wear A several rich gown, every week i' th' year! That, every day, new Servants you do win! But yet no virtue have, to glory in.

One of less beauty and less bravery, and Servantless, sooner should my heart command! Beauty will fade, and ruins leave behind; Give me the lasting beauty of the mind! Servants and clothes are the enamel oft Of bodies too luxurious and soft!

Leave vaunting, LYDIA! therefore, till you can Speak one true virtue; and I'll hear you then!

TIME is a feathered thing,

And (whilst I praise

The sparklings of thy looks; and call them rays) Takes wing!

Leaving behind him, as he flies, An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.

His minutes, whilst th' are told,
Do make us old;

And every sand of his fleet Glass,
Increasing age as it doth pass,

Insensibly sows wrinkles there,
Where flowers and roses do appear.

Whilst we do speak, our fire
Doth into ice expire!

Flames turn to frost!

And ere we can

Know how, our crow turns swan!

Or how a silver snow

Springs there, where jet did grow! Our fading Spring is, in dull Winter lost!...

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest;
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings!
He takes this window for the East;
And to implore your light, he sings!
Awake! Awake! The Morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes!

The Merchant bows unto the Seaman's Star;
The Ploughman, from the Sun his season takes:
But still the Lover wonders, What they are,
Who look for day before his Mistress wakes!

Awake! Awake! Break through your veils of
lawn;

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.

PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty Girl!
To purify the air!

Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair!

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse;
And wakes the louder drum!
Expense of grief gains no remorse;

When sorrow should be dumb!

For I must go, where lazy Peace
Will hide her drowsy head;
And, for the sport of Kings, increase
The number of the dead!

But, first, I'll chide thy cruel theft!
Can I in War delight;

Who (being of my heart bereft)
Can have no heart to fight?

Thou know'st, the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stolen away!

Thy payment shall but double be!
O, then, with speed, resign
My own seduced heart to me,
Accompanied with thine!

THE DYING LOVER.

DEAR Love, let me this evening die!

O, smile not, to prevent it! Dead, with my rivals let me lie;

Or we shall both repent it!

Frown quickly then; and break my heart!

That so, my way of dying

May, though my life was full of smart,
Be worth the World's envying!

Some, striving knowledge to refine,
Consume themselves with thinking!
And some, who friendship seal in wine,
Are kindly killed with drinking!

And some are wracked on th' Indian coast;
Thither by gain invited!

Some are in smoke of battles lost;

Where drums, not lutes, delighted!

Alas, how poorly these depart;
Their graves still unattended!
Who dies not of a broken heart,
Is not of Death commended!
His memory is only sweet,

All praise and pity moving,
Who kindly, at his Mistress' feet,
Does die with over-loving!

And now, thou frown'st; and now, I die!
My corpse by Lovers followed :
Which, straight, shall by dead Lovers lie;
That ground is only hallowed!
If Priests are grieved I have a grave,
My death not well approving;

The Poets my estate shall have,

To teach them the Art of Loving!