A VALEDICTION OF WEEPING.

LET me pour forth

My tears before thy face whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be

Pregnant of thee;

Fruits of much grief they are, embléms of more;

When a tear falls, that Thou fall'st which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.

On a round ball

A workman, that hath copies by, can lay

An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,

And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,

So doth each tear

Which thee doth wear,

1

A globe, yea, world 1 by that impression grow,

Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow

This world by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.

O more than moon,

Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead in thine arms, but forbear

To teach the sea what it may do too soon;

Let not the wind

Example find

1 would, 1669.

To do me more harm than it purposeth ;

Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,

Whoe'er sighs most, is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.

LOVE'S ALCHEMY.

SOME that have deeper digged love's mine than I,

Say where his centric happiness doth lie;

I have loved and got and told,

But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery;
Oh, 't is imposture all!

And as no chymic yet the Elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot,
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or médicinal,

So lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that any1 man

Can be as happy as I can, if he can

Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears

'T is not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,

Would swear as justly that he hears,

In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres : Hope not for mind in women; at their best Sweetness and wit, they 're but mummy, possest.

THE CURSE.

WHOEVER guesses, thinks, or dreams he knows
Who is my mistress, wither by this curse;
His only, and only his purse

May some dull heart to love dispose,
And she yield then to all that are his foes;1

May he be scorned by one whom all else scorn,
Forswear to others what to her he hath sworn,
With fear of missing, shame of getting, torn.

Madness his sorrow, gout his cramp,2 may he
Make by but thinking who hath made him such;
And
may he feel no touch

Of conscience, but of fame, and be

Anguished, not that 't was sin, but that 't was she;
In early and long scarceness may he rot,
For land which had been his, if he had not
Himself incestuously an heir begot.3

1 Him only for his purse

May some dull whore to love dispose,
And then yield unto all that are his foes, 1669.
2 cramps, ibid.

3 Or may he for her virtue reverence

One that hates him only for impotence,
And equal traitors be she and his sense.

May he dream treason and believe that he
Meant to perform it, and confess, and die,
And no record tell why;

His sons, which none of his may be,
Inherit nothing but his infamy;

Or may he so long parasites have fed,

That he would fain be theirs whom he hath bred,

And at the last be circumcised for bread.

The venom of all step-dames, gamester's gall,
What tyrans and their subjects interwish,
What plants, mine, beasts, fowl, fish
Can cóntribute, all ill which all
Prophets or poets spake, and all which shall
Be annexed in schedules unto this by me,
Fall on that man; for if it be a she,
Nature beforehand hath outcursed me.

THE MESSAGE.1

SEND home my long-strayed eyes to me,
Which (oh) too long have dwelt on thee;
Yet since there they have learned such ill,
Such forced fashions

And false passions,

That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

1 Without title in 1633. 2 But if they there, 1669.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
Which1 if it be taught by thine
To make jestings

Of protestings,

And break both

Word and oath,

Keep it, for then 't is none of mine.2

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know and see thy lies,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish,

And dost languish

For some one,

That will none,

Or prove as false as thou art now.8

A NOCTURNAL UPON S. LUCY'S DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY.

'T Is the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks

Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk :

The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,

1 But. 2 Keep it still, 't is none of mine, 1669. 3 dost now, ibid.