Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this? --No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. 197. TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Has not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun. No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherds' star Shine like a spangle here. Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye; And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die. 198. TO DAFFADILS Fair Daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. 199. TO VIOLETS Welcome, maids of honour, You do bring In the Spring; And wait upon her. She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any. You're the maiden posies; And so graced, To be placed 'Fore damask roses. --Yet, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected. 200. THE APRON OF FLOWERS To gather flowers, Sappha went, And homeward she did bring Within her lawny continent, The treasure of the Spring. She smiling blush'd, and blushing smiled, And sweetly blushing thus, She look'd as she'd been got with child By young Favonius. Her apron gave, as she did pass, An odour more divine, More pleasing too, than ever was The lap of Proserpine. 201. THE LILY IN A CRYSTAL