To Mrs Constance Aston.
As in the summer a soft falling shower
Tempereth Sol's beams, and cooles the parched earth,
Refresheth every field, to every flower
More sweetness yields, and gives to new ones birth;
Tempereth Sol's beams, and cooles the parched earth,
Refresheth every field, to every flower
More sweetness yields, and gives to new ones birth;
So in this cloud of griefe your beauty weares,
Your eyes but warme whom they were wont to burne,
Your lovely face thus gently dew'd with teares,
For every drop doth a fresh charme returne.
Your eyes but warme whom they were wont to burne,
Your lovely face thus gently dew'd with teares,
For every drop doth a fresh charme returne.
And as this sorrow doth your beauty raise,
By it of future joyes yourselfe assure;
It is their dawne; those are the fairest days,
Whose morning light mists for a while obscure.
By it of future joyes yourselfe assure;
It is their dawne; those are the fairest days,
Whose morning light mists for a while obscure.