Of following winter; like the ant See plenty hoard for time of scant. Cull out amongst the multitude Of lovers, seeking to intrude Into your favor, one that may Last for an age, not for a day. For when the storms of time have moved Waves on that cheek, now so beloved, When a fair lady’s face has pined, And yellow spread, where red once shined, When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her. Love may return, but lovers never. And old folks say, there are no pains Like itch of love, in aged veins. Oh, love me then, and now begin it, Let us not loose a precious minute, For time and age will work that rack, Which time or age shall ne’er call back. The snake each year, fresh skin resumes, And eagles, change their aged plumes. The faded rose, each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves: But if your beauties once decay, They never know a second May. LIPS AND EYES. In Celia’s face, a question doth arise Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes; We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower. Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure, In a sweet smile _unlocked their pearly treasure_; And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face. A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS. If when the sun at noon displays His brighter rays, Thou but appear He then all pale with shame, and fear, Quencheth his light, Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight And grows more dim Compared to thee, than stars to him, If thou but show thy face again, When darkness doth at midnight reign, The darkness flies, and light is hurled Round about the silent world. THE PRIMROSE. Ask me, why I send you here This firstling of the infant year? Ask me, why I send to you, This primrose, all bepearled with dew? I straight will whisper in your ears The sweets of love are washed with tears. Ask me, why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too? Ask me, why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break. I must tell you, these discover That doubts and fears beset your lover. MURDERING BEAUTY.