Much less mean we to trace The fortune of inferior gems, 31 THE WEEPER. [In the edition of 1670, the volume by Mr. Phillips in 1785, in Chalmers' collection, and others, the previous Poem is printed with numerous alterations and omissions, in manner following.] AIL sister springs, Parents of silver-forded rills! Ever bubbling things! Thawing crystal! Snowy hills! Still spending, never spent ; I mean Heavens thy fair eyes be; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine. But we're deceived all :<h Stars they're indeed too true, For they but seem to fall As Heaven's other spangles do : It is not for our earth and us, To shine in things so precious. Upwards thou dost weep; Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream. Thine crawls above and is the cream. Heaven, of such fair floods as this, Heaven the crystal ocean is. 5 Every morn from hence, A brisk cherub something sips, Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long, When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come; And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine. Nuzzled in the lily's neck. Much rather would it tremble here, Not the soft gold which Steals from the amber-weeping tree, As the drops distill'd from thee. When Sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, For she is a queen, Then is she drest by none but thee.. Then, and only then, she wears 10 Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. Sadness, all the while She sits in such a throne as this, Nor believe she sadness is: Gladness itself would be more glad 12 There is no need at all, So coyly should let fall His med'cinable tears; for now Nature hath learn'd t'extract a dew, More sovereign and sweet from you. 13 Yet let the poor drops weep, Sad that they are vanquish'd so; Golden though he be, Golden Tagus murmurs; though Richer far does he esteem Thy silver, than his golden stream. Well does the May that lies Smiling in thy cheeks, confess The April in thine eyes; Mutual sweetness they express. No April e'er lent softer showers, Nor May returnèd fairer flowers. Thus dost thou melt the year Into a weeping motion; Each minute waiteth here, Takes his tear and gets him gone; By thine eye's tinct ennobled thus, Time lays him up; he's precious. Time, as by thee he passes, Makes thy ever-watery eyes By them his steps he rectifies. Does thy song lull the air? Up in clouds of incense climb ? A bead, that is, a tear, doth drop. Does the night arise? Still thy tears do fall, and fall. Still the fountain weeps for all. Let night or day do what they will, Not, so long she lived, Will thy tomb report of thee; But, so long she grieved, Thus must we date thy memory. Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears. ugh' |