Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right. Days, that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night. Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by th' absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend!' Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish--no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows; Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character. May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions--but her story. Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 337. The Weeper HAIL, sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever bubbling things, Thawing crystal, snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine. Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long. When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come, And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine. The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.