To
His Mistress,
upon Returne from Travells.
Oh God! that I could thinke it true
That you could possibly be you.
Weire you not young, weire you not fayre,
Not red thy lypp, not browne thy haire?
What single bloome of beauty past?
What bud blowne when I saw thee last?
And now (unlesse thy ages prime
As endlesse weire as that of tyme,
Or fates had twin'd thy thred, t' apeare
Round as ther serpent, or ther yeare,
And that thy constant beauty's flame
Could, as the sun, still rise the same,)
You stil yourself unto my veue,
How can I think should yet be you?
Tis fifteene yeares, a period
Might serve a prophet, or a God,
(A Delphik Oracle might cleare
His riddle once in fifteene yeare,)
Since I saw Englands face and thine;
Now that's ecclipst, and yet you shine.
Thos eyes there wonted terror keepe,
The self-same danger's in that lyppe;
The pitt, the nett, the trapp, the hooke,
The snare is still the self-same looke.
All owld temptations still I see:
Both frute and flower combind in thee.
When I came home, and past the land
Where once our favor'd oakes did stand,
Whos naturall age, by course, survives
The common reach of human lyfes;
And could not spy one single tree
Markt with the names of thee and me;
Was now to pluck a twigge afray'd,
Where we so many garlands made;
Cause all was chang'd in every place,
I cry'd, and is this Englands face?
Say, if in yon soft christall brook,
Where thou thy softer self dost looke,
The nymph should keep her gliding face,
Still stedfast in the self same place,
Would she not loose a current's name,
Or could you iudge her still the same?
Or not a lake it rather say,
That was a river t' other day?
So you may be your daughter, true,
But never dreame that you are you.
Ah! more then rivers farre, we flow,
And to our sea of nothing goe!
Ten thousand windings turne our braine;
As many humours fill each veine;
Which, though they smoothly glide, and seeme
To kisse the channel of each limme,
In tyme, by an unseen decay,
Nibble the fay rest bankes a way.
Then be not pittylessly prowd
Of what kind heaven has thee alow'd.
Since fates thy state such firmenesse give,
Oh, huswyfe thy prerogative;
Abuse not beautys soverainty,
The world may call it tyranny;
Despare may teach us all new libertys,
And thee the fate of other monarchies.
That you could possibly be you.
Weire you not young, weire you not fayre,
Not red thy lypp, not browne thy haire?
What single bloome of beauty past?
What bud blowne when I saw thee last?
And now (unlesse thy ages prime
As endlesse weire as that of tyme,
Or fates had twin'd thy thred, t' apeare
Round as ther serpent, or ther yeare,
And that thy constant beauty's flame
Could, as the sun, still rise the same,)
You stil yourself unto my veue,
How can I think should yet be you?
Tis fifteene yeares, a period
Might serve a prophet, or a God,
(A Delphik Oracle might cleare
His riddle once in fifteene yeare,)
Since I saw Englands face and thine;
Now that's ecclipst, and yet you shine.
Thos eyes there wonted terror keepe,
The self-same danger's in that lyppe;
The pitt, the nett, the trapp, the hooke,
The snare is still the self-same looke.
All owld temptations still I see:
Both frute and flower combind in thee.
When I came home, and past the land
Where once our favor'd oakes did stand,
Whos naturall age, by course, survives
The common reach of human lyfes;
And could not spy one single tree
Markt with the names of thee and me;
Was now to pluck a twigge afray'd,
Where we so many garlands made;
Cause all was chang'd in every place,
I cry'd, and is this Englands face?
Say, if in yon soft christall brook,
Where thou thy softer self dost looke,
The nymph should keep her gliding face,
Still stedfast in the self same place,
Would she not loose a current's name,
Or could you iudge her still the same?
Or not a lake it rather say,
That was a river t' other day?
So you may be your daughter, true,
But never dreame that you are you.
Ah! more then rivers farre, we flow,
And to our sea of nothing goe!
Ten thousand windings turne our braine;
As many humours fill each veine;
Which, though they smoothly glide, and seeme
To kisse the channel of each limme,
In tyme, by an unseen decay,
Nibble the fay rest bankes a way.
Then be not pittylessly prowd
Of what kind heaven has thee alow'd.
Since fates thy state such firmenesse give,
Oh, huswyfe thy prerogative;
Abuse not beautys soverainty,
The world may call it tyranny;
Despare may teach us all new libertys,
And thee the fate of other monarchies.