139. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS
You are a Tulip seen to-day,
But, Dearest, of so short a stay,
That where you grew, scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower;
Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud,
Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine;
Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.
You are like Balm, enclosed well
In amber, or some crystal shell;
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty Violet;
Yet wither'd, ere you can be set
Within the virgins coronet.
You are the Queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
140. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
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.
EPIGRAMS
141. POSTING TO PRINTING
Let others to the printing-press run fast;
Since after death comes glory, I'll not haste.