To thy lover
Deere, discover
That sweet blush of thine that shameth
—When those roses
It discloses—
All the flowers that Nature nameth.
In free ayre,
Flow thy haire;
That no more Summer's best dresses,
Bee beholden
For their golden
Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses.
O deliver
Love his quiver;
From thy eyes he shoots his arrowes:
Where Apollo
Cannot follow:
Featherd with his mother's sparrowes.
O envy not
—That we dye not—
Those deere lips whose doore encloses
All the Graces
In their places,
Brother pearles, and sister roses.
From these treasures
Of ripe pleasures
One bright smile to cleere the weather.
Earth and Heaven
Thus made even,
Both will be good friends together.
The aire does wooe thee,
Winds cling to thee;
Might a word once fly from out thee,
Storme and thunder
Would sit under,
And keepe silence round about thee.
But if Nature's
Common creatures,
So deare glories dare not borrow:
Yet thy beauty
Owes a duty,
To my loving, lingring sorrow,
When to end mee
Death shall send mee
All his terrors to affright mee:
Thine eyes' Graces
Gild their faces,
And those terrors shall delight mee.
When my dying
Life is flying,
Those sweet aires that often slew mee
Shall revive mee,
Or reprive mee,
And to many deaths renew mee.