No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow! She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes. Welcome--tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity. Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep. To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 341. Christ Crucified THY restless feet now cannot go For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though They swim, alas! in their own flood? Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift! It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free! Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night. Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas IF to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.