Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. 15 Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20 _Edmund Waller._ LXIX _THE ROSES PRIDE._ Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. _Sir Richard Fanshawe._ LXX _TO CASTARA. THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE._ We saw and wooed each other’s eyes, My soul contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice, By which our marriage grew divine. Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 5 Profane the temple of delight, And purchase endless penitence With the stol’n pleasure of one night. Time’s ever ours, while we despise The sensual idol of our clay, 10 For though the suns do set and rise, We joy one everlasting day; Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent; The troubled stream is still impure; 15 With virtue flies away content. And though opinions often err, We’ll court the modest smile of fame, For sin’s black danger circles her Who hath infection in her name. 20 Thus when to one dark silent room Death shall our loving coffins thrust, Fame will build columns on our tomb, And add a perfume to our dust. _William Habington._ LXXI _LOVE’S ANNIVERSARY._ TO THE SUN. Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour In which I first by marriage, sacred power, Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame; Which had increased, but that by love’s decree 5 ’Twas such at first, it ne’er could greater be. But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness? I since that have seen The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10 And wither, and the beauty of the field With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher; But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire. _William Habington._ LXXII _THE SURRENDER._