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A nocturnall upon S.Lucies Day,
Beinge the shortest day.
Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
The worlds whole sap is sunke:*
The generall balme th'hydroptique earth hath drunk,*
Whither*, as to the beds-feet life is shrunke,
Dead and enterr'd; yet all these seeme to laugh,
Compar'd with mee, who am* their Epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new Alchimie*.
For his art did expresse
A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
From dull privations, and leane emptinesse
He ruin'd mee, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have,
I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have wee two wept, and so

[CW: Drown'd]