LITMIR.BIZ

           Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit

             As unconcern'd as when

           Your infant beauty could beget

             No happiness or pain!

           When I the dawn used to admire,

             And praised the coming day,

           I little thought the rising fire

             Would take my rest away.

           Your charms in harmless childhood lay

             Like metals in a mine;

           Age from no face takes more away

             Than youth conceal'd in thine.

           But as your charms insensibly

             To their perfection prest,

           So love as unperceived did fly,

             And center'd in my breast.

           My passion with your beauty grew,

             While Cupid at my heart

           Still as his mother favour'd you,

             Threw a new flaming dart:

           Each gloried in their wanton part;

             To make a lover, he

           Employ'd the utmost of his art—

             To make a beauty, she.

           Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

             Old Time is still a-flying:

           And this same flower that smiles to-day,

             To-morrow will be dying.

           The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

             The higher he's a-getting

           The sooner will his race be run,

             And nearer he's to setting.

           That age is best which is the first,

             When youth and blood are warmer,

           But being spent, the worse, and worst

             Times, still succeed the former.

           Then be not coy, but use your time;

             And while ye may, go marry:

           For having lost but once your prime,

             You may for ever tarry.

           Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

             That from the nunnery

           Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

             To war and arms I fly.

           True, a new mistress now I chase,

             The first foe in the field;

           And with a stronger faith embrace

             A sword, a horse, a shield.

           Yet this inconstancy is such

             As you too shalt adore;

           I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

             Loved I not Honour more.

           You meaner beauties of the night,

             Which poorly satisfy our eyes

           More by your number than your light,

             You common people of the skies,

           What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

           Ye violets that first appear,

             By your pure purple mantles known

           Like the proud virgins of the year

             As if the spring were all your own,—

           What are you, when the Rose is blown?

           You curious chanters of the wood

             That warble forth dame Nature's lays,

           Thinking your passions understood

             By your weak accents; what's your praise

           When Philomel her voice doth raise?

           So, when my Mistress shall be seen

             In sweetness of her looks and mind,

           By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

             Tell me, if she were not design'd

           Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

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