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Yet lies not Loue dead here, but here doth sitt, Vowd to this trench, like an Anachoritt. And here till hers, which mvst bee his death, come, Hee doth not dig a graue, but build a Tomb; Heere dwells hee, though hee soiourne every where In Progress. Yet his standing house is heere; Here where still Eveninge is. not Noone, nor Night Where noe Voluptuousnes, yet all delight: In all her words vnto all hearers fitt Yow may at Revells, you at Counsaile, sitt; This is Loues timber, Youth his Vnderwood. There bee hee as wine in Iune enrages blood Which then comes seasonablest, when our tast And appetite to other things is past, Xerxes strange Lydean loue, the Platane tree Was loud for age, none beinge so large as shee Or els because beinge younge; Nature did blesse Her youth with ages glorie Barrenesse; If wee loue thinges longe sought, Age is a thinge, Which wee are fiftie yeares in compassinge, If transitorie thinges which soone decaie, Age mvst bee loueliest, at the latest daie; But name not Winter faces, Whose skins slacke, Lanck as an vnthrifts purse; But a Soules sacke Whose Eyes seeke light with in, for all here's shade; Whose mouthes are holes, rather worne out then made, Whose every tooth to a seuerall place is gone, To vexe their Soules att Resurrection; |
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