Upwards thou dost weep;

Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream.
Where the milky rivers creep,

Thine floats above and is the cream.
Waters above the heavens, what they be,
We are taught best by thy tears and thee.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There is no need at all,
That the balsam-sweating bough
So coyly should let fall

His med'cinable tears; for now
Nature hath learnt 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.

Such the maiden gem
By the wanton spring put on,
Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the watery sun:
This watery blossom of thy eyne
Ripe, will make the richer wine.

When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,

And Heaven will make a feast,

Angels with crystal vials come ; And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.

Golden though he be,

Golden Tagus murmurs; though
Were his way by thee,

Content and quiet he would go ;

So much more rich would 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 kinder showers,
Nor May return'd more faithful flowers.

O cheeks! Beds of chaste loves,
By your own showers seasonably dash'd.
Eyes! nests of milky doves,

In

your own wells decently wash'd. O wit of love! that thus could place Fountain and garden in one face.

O sweet contest; of woes

With loves, of tears with smiles disporting!
O fair and friendly foes,

Each other kissing and comforting!
While rain and sunshine, cheeks and eyes,

Close in kind contrarieties.

But can these fair floods be

Friends with the bosom fires that fill ye!
Can so great flames agree

Eternal tears should thus distil thee!

O floods, O fires, O suns, O showers!

Mix'd and made friends by love's sweet pow'rs.

"Twas his well-pointed dart

That digg'd these wells, and dress'd this vine;
And taught that wounded heart

The way into these weeping eyne.
Vain loves avaunt! bold hands forbear!
The lamb hath dipped his white foot here.

And now where'er he strays
Among the Galilean mountains,
Or more unwelcome ways,

He's follow'd by two faithful fountains;
Two walking baths, two weeping motions,
Portable and compendious oceans.

O thou, thy Lord's fair store,
In thy so rich and large expenses,
Even when he show'd most poor,

He might provoke the wealth of princes.
What prince's wanton'st pride e'er could.
Wash with silver, wipe with gold?

Who is that King, but he

Who call'st his crown to be call'd thine,

That thus can boast to be

Waited on by a wand'ring mine,

A voluntary mint, that strews

Warm silver show'rs where'er he goes?

O precious prodigal!

Fair spendthrift of thyself! thy measure,

Merciless love! is all

Even to the last pearl in thy treasure. All places, times, and objects be

Thy tear's sweet opportunity.

Does the day-star rise?
Still thy stars do fall, and fall;
Does day close his eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
Let night or day do what they will,
Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

Does thy song lull the air?
Thy falling tears keep faithful time.
Does thy sweet-breath'd pray'r
Up in clouds of incense climb?
Still at each sigh, that is, each stop,
A bead, that is, a tear, does drop.

At these thy weeping gates,
Watching their wat❜ry motion,

Each winged moment waits,

Takes his tear, and gets him gone. By thine eye's tinct ennobled thus,

Time lays him up: he's precious.

Not, so long she lived,
Shall thy tomb report of thee;
But, so long she grieved,