A sequestration bare. Too far alike we were, Too far Dissimilar.
For its burning fruitage I Do climb the tree o' the sky; Do prize Some human eyes.
You smelt the Heaven-blossoms, And all the sweet embosoms The dear Uranian year.
Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns, Which to the suns are Suns, Did Not affray your lid.
The carpet was let down (With golden moultings strown) For you Of the angels' blue.
But I, ex-Paradised, The shoulder of your Christ Find high To lean thereby.
So flaps my helpless sail, Bellying with neither gale, Of Heaven Nor Orcus even.
Life is a coquetry Of Death, which wearies me, Too sure Of the amour;
A tiring-room where I Death's divers garments try, Till fit Some fashion sit.
It seemeth me too much I do rehearse for such A mean And single scene.