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Elegie.
The Autumnall.
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;

[CW: There]