You, Ladies fair! That worthy are Of all to be beloved; And yet have hearts So hard, that darts From eyes have never moved! You, cruel Saints! That slight complaints, And scorn to pity any; The time, when ye Which when I hear, Then I will swear That you are rightly fitted; The little Elf On you hath well acquitted! But do your worst! I'm not accurst! My Mistress is no coy one! For She is kind; And hath no mind Within her, to destroy one! 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, And every sand of his fleet Glass, Insensibly sows wrinkles there, Whilst we do speak, our fire 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; Awake! Awake! The Morn will never rise, The Merchant bows unto the Seaman's Star; 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! Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, The trumpet makes the echo hoarse; When sorrow should be dumb! For I must go, where lazy Peace But, first, I'll chide thy cruel theft! Who (being of my heart bereft) Thou know'st, the sacred laws of old Thy payment shall but double be! 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, |