Thus must we date thy memory.

Others by moments, months, and years,
Measure their ages; thou, by tears.

So do perfumes expire;

So sigh tormented sweets, oppress'd
With proud unpitying fires;

Such tears the suff'ring rose that's vex'd

With ungentle flames does shed,

Sweating in a too warm bed.

Say, ye bright brothers,

The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
Your fruitful mothers,

What make you here? what hopes can 'tice

You to be born? what cause can borrow

You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast?

For sure the sordid earth

Your sweetness cannot taste,

Nor does the dust deserve their birth. Sweet, whither haste you then? O, say Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek

The darlings of Aurora's bed,

The rose's modest cheek,

Nor the violet's humble head.

Though the field's eyes, too, weepers be,

Because they want such tears as we.

Much less mean we to trace
The fortune of inferior gems,

Preferr'd to some proud face,
Or perch'd upon fear'd diadems.
Crowned heads are toys. We go to meet
A worthy object, our Lord's feet.

THE WEEPER.

[In the edition of 1670, the volume by Mr. Phillips 1785, in Chalmers' collection, and others, the previov 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
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;

"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 :
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.
Where the milky rivers meet,

Thine crawls above and is the cream.

Heaven, of such fair floods as this,

Heaven the crystal ocean is.

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.

The dew no more will weep,
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more will sleep,

Nuzzled in the lily's neck.

Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distill'd from thee.

Sorrow's best jewels lie in these
Caskets of which Heaven keeps the keys.

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

Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears.

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,
Can do nought but smile,

Nor believe she sadness is:

Gladness itself would be more glad
To be made so sweetly sad.

There is no need at all,
That the balsam-sweating bough
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.

Yet let the poor drops weep, Weeping is the case of woe; Softly let them creep,

Sad that they are vanquish'd so; They, though to others no relief, May balsam be for their own grief.

Golden though he be,

Golden Tagus murmurs; though
Might he flow from thee,

Content and quiet would he go;

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 returned fairer flowers.

Thus dost thou melt the year

Into a weeping motion;

Each minute waiteth here,