215. THE BUBBLE. A SONG.
To my revenge and to her desperate fears
Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears.
In the wild air when thou hast rolled about,
And, like a blasting planet, found her out.
Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye, then glare
Like to a dreadful comet in the air:
Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight
For thy revenge to be most opposite,
Then, like a globe or ball of wild-fire, fly,
And break thyself in shivers on her eye.
216. 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 virgin's coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among,
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.