173

SONG

If 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 agèd 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.

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II

INGRATEFUL 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 lived unknown, Had not my verse extoll'd thy name, And with it imp'd 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.

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Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate;

Let fools thy mystic form adore,

I know thee in thy mortal state.

Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,

Knew her themselves through all her veils. 18

AN EPITAPH

This little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here,
For ever set to us: by death
Sent to enflame the world beneath.

'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again;
A budding star, that might have grown
Into a sun when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in love's declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear:
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

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