Stay lovely boy! why flyest thou mee
that languish in theis flames for thee?
I'me black 'tis true—why so is night,
yet louers in darke shades delight:
the whole World, doe but close thyne eye
will appeare as black as I;
or open'd, view but what a shade
is by thyne owne fayre body made,
that follows thee where ere thou goe:
Ah, who allow'd would not doe so?
lett mee for euer dwell so nigh,
and thou shalt need no shade but I.
[LOVE-FLIGHT.]
Black Mayel, complayne not yt I flye,
since fate commaunds antipathy:
prodigious must yt vnion proue,
where day and night togeather moue:
and the commotion of our lipps
not kisses make but an eclipps;
where the commixèd blacke and white
portend more terrour then delight:
yet if thou wilt my shaddow bee,
enioy thy deerest wish, but see
that like my shaddow's property
thou hast away as I come nye:
els[e] stay till death hath blinded mee
then I'le bequeath my selfe to thee.[274]
AN ELEGIECALL EPISTLE ON SIR JOHN DAVIS DEATH.
Morgan! to call thee sadd and discontente
Were to proclaime thee weake; twere an evente
Of more then folly, since the obscurest eye
Is witness of thy magnanimity:
And yett to tell thee that thou hast noe cause
To greife, were to belye thy worth, because
The gapinge wound speakes out the sovldiers fame,
And deepe despites giue fortitude a name.
Tis true hee's dead, and the sterne fates (accurst)
There browes haue wrinkled, and haue done their worst
To spite this State and thee, in tearinge hence
That Nature's Accademy, that Starre, from whence
Streamd such full influence, of what the mind
Accounteth quintisentiall; and the vnkinde
And cruell Death, hath blasted such a flower,
Stolne such a gemme, as makes the sad Earth poore.
And yett alasse[275] hee is not fledd for want
Of what could make the ambitious, proud soule vaunt:
For whilst hee liv'd hee brocke up Honour's gates,
And pluck't bright fame from snarling Envie's grates
Doomd to obliuion; and his unmatchèd penne
(Drop'd from the winge of some bright Seraphin)
Inculpates him thus to all eternitye
The eldest of the Muses proginie.
Said I hee's dead? not soe; he could not die,
But findinge that curst lucre, bribery
And puft[276] ambition were the scarlett crimes
Of the Tribunall's tenants, and the times
Not suitinge with his vertues, cause his manner
Was to deserue and not desire, an honour;
Hee's sor'd aloft, where nought but virtue's pris'd,
And where base Mammon is not idoliz'd:
To that Kinge's Bench where Iustice is not gould,
Nor honours with old Ladies bought and sould;
To heauen's Exchequer, with intent to paye,
And render thence the Royall subsidaye
Of his rich spirit, which his soueraigne tooke
Without subscription, and crost Nature's booke.