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Loos, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour; Whilft yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty time bestows upon
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now : Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Diffolves the beauty of the faireft brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now whilst thou may'st be lov'd again.
If this be love to draw a weary breath,
With downward looks, still reading on the earth
These sad memorials of my love's despair;
If this he love, to war against my soul,
Lie down to wail, rise up to figh and grieve, The never-resting stone of care to roll,
Still to complain my griefs, whilft none relieve;
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
and sorrow at my If this be love, to live a living death ; Then do I love, and draw this weary
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 burthen of my song)
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Muft yield up all to tyrant Time's desire; Then fade those flowers that deck'd her pride so long.
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, the best shall find in you. Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But (Phænix like) shall make her live anew.
S O N N E T.
the tender green,
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the faireft flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose : The hue which thou so carefully doft nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd 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.
Must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile, Flowers have time before they come to feed,
And he is young, and now muft 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 fighs 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 figh'd for such a one.
Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours,
In the fall of filent showers;
Hath her bofom deck'd with flowers.
Whilft the greatest torch of heaven
With bright rays warms Flora's lap, Making days and nights both even,
Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.
O HAPPY golden age!
With streams of milk, and honey dropt from trees;
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
That idle name of wind,
That idol of deceit, that empty sound Callid 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,