Upwards thou dost weep; Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream. Thine floats above and is the cream. Every morn from hence, A brisk cherub something sips, Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Not in the evening's eyes, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet 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, 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, His med'cinable tears; for now Yet let the poor drops weep, Sad that they are vanquish'd so; They, though to others no relief, Such the maiden gem When some new bright guest 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 Content and quiet he would go ; So much more rich would he esteem Well does the May that lies O cheeks! Beds of chaste loves, 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! Each other kissing and comforting! Close in kind contrarieties. But can these fair floods be Friends with the bosom fires that fill ye! 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; The way into these weeping eyne. And now where'er he strays He's follow'd by two faithful fountains; O thou, thy Lord's fair store, He might provoke the wealth of princes. 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? Does thy song lull the air? At these thy weeping gates, 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, |