LXXIV. THE TEAR. GLIDE, gentle streams, and bear Along with you my tear To that coy girl; Who smiles, yet slays Me with delays, And strings my tears as pearl. See! see! she's yonder set, Making a carcanet Of maiden flowers: There, there present This orient, And pendant pearl of ours. Then say, I've sent one more Gem to enrich her store; And that is all Which I can send Or vainly spend, For tears no more will fall. Nor will I seek supply Of them, the springs once dry; But I'll devise, Among the rest, A way that's best How I may save mine eyes. Yet say, should she condemn Then say, my part Must be to weep Out them, to keep Say too, she would have this: She shall. Then my hope is And nothing have To send or save, I'm sure she'll ask no more. LXXV. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. ATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, GA 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, Then be not coy, but use your time ; LXXVI. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR. NLY a little more ONL I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night. 'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it; And then I must away. O time that cutt'st down all ! And scarce leav`st here Of any men that were. How many lie forgot In vaults beneath? And piece-meal rot Without a fame in death? Behold this living stone, I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee. Pillars let some set up, If so they please, Here is my hope, And my Pyramides. LXXVII. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER. HARM me asleep, and melt me so CHA With thy delicious numbers; That being ravished, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou Power that canst sever From me this ill: And quickly still: Though thou not kill My fever. Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire, Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. My pains asleep; And give me such reposes, That I, poor I, May think, thereby, I live and die 'Mongst roses. Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers, Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains, With thy soft strains; |