Thus my vital breath doth waste,
And, my blood with sorrow drying,
Sighs and tears make life to last
For a while, their place supplying:
What remains but only dying?
From Robert Jones’ First Book of Airs, 1601.
She whose matchless beauty staineth
Can a creature, so excelling,
Harbour scorn in beauty’s dwelling,
All kind pity thence expelling?
Pity beauty much commendeth
And th’ embracer oft befriendeth
When all eye-contentment endeth.
Time proves beauty transitory;
Scorn, the stain of beauty’s glory,
In time makes the scorner sorry.
None adores the sun declining;
Love all love falls to resigning
When the sun of love leaves shining.
So, when flower of beauty fails thee,
And age, stealing on, assails thee,
Then mark what this scorn avails thee.
Then those hearts, which now complaining
Feel the wounds of thy disdaining,
Shall contemn thy beauty waning.
Yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd,
Shall with spite and grief surprisèd
Burst to find itself despisèd.