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Elegie. |
The Autumnall. |
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No Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace, |
As I have seen in one Autumnall face, |
Yong Beauties force our love, and that's a Rape, |
This doth but counsaile, yet you cannot scape. |
If t'were a shame to love, here t'were no shame, |
Affections here take Reverences name. |
Were her first yeares the Golden Age; That's true, |
But now they'are gold oft tried, and ever new. |
That was her torrid and inflaming time, |
This is her tolerable Tropique clyme. |
Faire eyes, who askes more heate* then comes from hence, |
He in a fever wishes pestilence. |
Call not these wrinkles, graves; If graves they were, |
They were Loves graves; for else he is no where. |
Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth sit |
Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit. |
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, |
He doth not digge a Grave, but build a Tombe. |
Here dwells he, though he sojourne ev'ry where,* |
In Progresse, yet his standing house is here. |
Here, where still Evening is; not noone, nor night; |
Where no voluptuousnesse,, yet all delight. |
In all her words, unto all hearers fit, |
You may at Revels, you at counsaile, sit. |
This is loves timber, youth his under-wood;
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[CW: There] |