As the great Sonnes of War, that are rays'd high With eager heats, of frequent Victorie, Grow to such lazy pride; they take it ill Men still should put them to the paines to kill; And would, at each sterne becken of the Eye, Have the sad Foe, vaile Plumes, take leave, and dye: So thou; as if thy Sorrowes had o'recome Halfe the wise world, and struck all reason dumbe; Cry'st, she is dead! and frown'st, because I now Take not my Wreath (the treasure of my Brow) Then hurle my selfe, and it, a Sacrifice In hallow'd flames, to her departed Eyes. 'Cause early Men, their Curtaines draw, and say Behold the Sunne is risen, now 'tis day; Knowing thy Sunne is set, thou swearst their sight, Is led by bus'nesse t'a miss-take of Light. Lovers beleeve, if yet th'Almighty cou'd Doubt part of his so swift creation good; To ease him of another Fiat, they Can with their Mistresse beames, make him a day: To rule the Night, each Glance (they thinke) will fit Planets to largest Spheares, if wee admit Their silly Priests (the Poets) be but by, That love to sooth such faith t'idolatrie. But how have I transgress'd, thus to declame 'Gainst sorrow I should envy more than blame? For what is he, though reverendly old, And than a Mountaine Muscovite more cold; Though he want Wit, or nature to desire; Though his hard heart be Ir'ne, his heart-strings Wire: Or what is he, though blind, and knowes no good Of love, but by an itching faith in's blood, That when thy Tongue her beauty open layes To mentall view, and her soft minde displayes, Will thinke thy griefe was over-pay'd, or yet Bate the world one Sigh, of so just a debt? But she is gone! Repine now, if you dare; Like Heav'ns unlicenc'd Fooles, all punish'd are For Nature as for crimes; yet cannot choose But mourne for ev'ry excellence wee loose; Though still commanded to a tame content; To thinke no good was given us, but lent: And a fond ridle in Philosophy, Perswades us too; the Virtuous never dye; That all the ills, which wee in absence finde Concerne the Eye-sight only, not the Minde: But Lovers (whose wise Sences take delight In warme contaction, and in reall sight) Are not with leane imagination fed, Or satisfi'd, with thinking on the Dead. 'Tis fit wee seeke her then; but he that finds Her out, must enter friendship with the Winds; Enquire their dwelling, and uncertaine walks; Whither they blow, from their forsaken Stalks Flow'rs that are gone, ere they are smelt? or how Dispose o'th sweeter Blossoms of the Bough? For She (the Tresuresse of these) is fled, Not having the dull leasure to be dead; But t'hoord this Wealth; returne, and this Wealth bring Still vary'd, and encreas'd in ev'ry Spring.
