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Thy beauties therefore
Bestow thy beauty then on me,
grow immortal as thy mind.
I'll fix thy title next in fame.
be absent here, I needs must say The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
As if they sung to pleasure you:
How could it be so fair, and you away
? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
And call’d their fellows to the sight,
And still their former pride retain ?
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
And bade them silent to him run.
You did their natural rights invade ;
did walk or sit,
Although the sun had granted it:
The little joys which here are now,
How we depriv'd of greater are:
the best of seasons with you bring ; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.
WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.
Whilst what I write I do not see,
I dare thus, even to you, write poetry.
And know'st her judgment well,
How much it does thy power excel,
Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,
Because thy form is innocent and pure : Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But, when they sadly come to die,
And the last fire their truth must try, Scrawld o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.
Go then, but reverently go,
And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too: Confess 't, and with humility clothe thy shame;
For thou, who else must burned be
An heretic, if she pardon thee,
But, if her wisdom grow severe,
WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON. If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain;
Be not discouraged, but require
A more gentle ordeal fire,
Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show
Like winter-earth, naked or cloth'd with snow : But as, the quickening sun approaching near,
The plants arise up by degrees ;
A sudden paint adorns the trees,
So, nothing yet in thee is seen;
But, when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows;
Here buds an A, and there a B,
Here sprouts a V, and there a T,
Still, silly paper! thou wilt think
That all this might as well be writ with ink : Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mystery
Thou now mayst change thy author's name,
And to her hand lay noble claim; For, as she reads, she makes, the words in thee.
Yet-if thine own unworthiness
Will still that thou art' mine, not hers confessConsume thyself with fire before her eyes,
And so her grace or pity move:
The Gods, though beasts they do not love, Yet like them when they're burnt in sacrifice.
Five years ago (says Story) I loved you,
mistake the man,
bear. The world's a scene of changes; and to be Constant, in Nature were inconstancy ; For 'twere to break the laws herself has made : Our substances themselves do feet and fade; The most fix'd being still does move and fly, Swift as the wings of time 'tis measured by. To’imagine then that Love should never cease (Love, which is but the ornament of these) Were quite as senseless, as to wonder why Beauty and colour stay not when we die,