One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come, And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb; When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise, And there to lick th' effused sacrifice, Though paleness be the livery that I wear, Look ye not wan or colourless for fear. Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once show The least grim look, or cast a frown on you; Nor shall the tapers, when I'm there, burn blue. This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,-- Cast on my girls a glance, and loving eye; Or fold mine arms, and sigh, because I've lost The world so soon, and in it, you the most: --Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall, Though then I smile, and speak no words at all. 138. TO PERILLA Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see Me, day by day, to steal away from thee? Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come, And haste away to mine eternal home; 'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this, That I must give thee the supremest kiss:-- Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring Part of the cream from that religious spring, With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; That done, then wind me in that very sheet Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst implore The Gods' protection, but the night before; Follow me weeping to my turf, and there Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear: Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 139. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS You are a Tulip seen to-day, But, Dearest, of so short a stay, That where you grew, scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower; Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood. You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with tendrils love entwine; Yet dried, ere you distil your wine. You are like Balm, enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell; Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty Violet; Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgins coronet. You are the Queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song. 140. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME Gather ye rose-buds while ye may: Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.