As Day tells houres. By thy cleer Sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my Hemisphear,

Since both thy light and motion.
Like a fled Star is fall'n and gon,

And twixt me and my soules dear wish
The earth now interposed is,

Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne're was read in Almanake.

I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad Clime,
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then ;
And all that space my mirth adjourn,
So thou wouldst promise to return;
And putting off thy ashy shrowd
At length disperse this sorrows cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate

These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry

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A glimpse of thee, till that day come

Which shall the earth to cinders doome,

And a fierce Feaver must calcine

The body of this world like thine,

(My Little World!) that fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire

To our soules bliss: then we shall rise,
And view our selves with cleerer eyes
In that calm Region, where no night
Can hide us from each others sight.

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Mean time, thou hast her earth: much good
May my harm do thee. Since it stood

With Heavens will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-liv'd right and interest
In her, whom living I lov'd best:
With a most free and bounteous grief,
I give thee what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and prethee look
Thou write into thy Dooms-day book
Each parcell of this Rarity

Which in thy Casket shrin'd doth ly:
See that thou make thy reck'ning streight,
And yield her back again by weight;
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each graine and atome of this dust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee my dear Monument.

So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw, my Bride is laid.

Sleep on my Love in thy cold bed

Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy Tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow Vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,

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90

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,

And ev'ry houre a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise neerer my West
Of life, almost by eight houres saile,

Then when sleep breath'd his drowsie gale.

Bottom stears,

Thus from the Sun my
And my dayes Compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stemme the tide

Through which to Thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou like the Vann first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to dy

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.

But heark! My Pulse like a soft Drum
Beats my approach, tells Thee I come;
And slow howere my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by Thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,

And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

Henry King.

100

ΙΙΟ

I 20

A Contemplation upon flowers.

Band be as little vaine,

Rave flowers, that I could gallant it like you

You come abroad, and make a harmelesse shew,
And to your bedds of Earthe againe ;
You are not proud, you know your birth

For

your Embroiderd garments are from Earth:

You doe obey your moneths, and times, but I
Would have it ever springe,

My fate would know noe winter, never dye
Nor thinke of such a thing;

Oh that I could my bedd of Earth but view
And Smile, and looke as Chearefully as you:

Oh teach me to see Death, and not to feare
But rather to take truce;

How often have I seene you at a Beere,
And there look fresh and spruce ;

You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breath
Like yours may sweeten, and perfume my Death.

H. Kinge.

ΙΟ

On a Drop of Dew.

Ee how the Orient Dew,

Se

Shoot the Bosom of the Morn

Into the blowing Roses,

Yet careless of its Mansion new;

For the clear Region where 'twas born

Round in its self incloses :

And in its little Globes Extent,

Frames as it can its native Element.
How it the purple flow'r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lyes,
But gazing back upon the Skies,
Shines with a mournful Light;

Like its own Tear,

Because so long divided from the Sphear.
Restless it roules and unsecure,

Trembling lest it grow impure:
Till the warm Sun pitty it's Pain,
And to the Skies exhale it back again.
So the Soul, that Drop, that Ray

Of the clear Fountain of Eternal Day,
Could it within the humane flow'r be seen,

Remembring still its former height,

Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own Light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater Heaven in an Heaven less.

In how coy a Figure wound,

Every way it turns away :

So the World excluding round,

Yet receiving in the Day.

ΙΟ

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