He that will not love must be My scholar, and learn this of me: There be in love as many fears As the summer's corn has ears: Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows more Than the sand that makes the shore: Freezing cold and fiery heats, Fainting swoons and deadly sweats; Now an ague, then a fever, Both tormenting lovers ever. Would'st thou know, besides all these, How hard a woman 'tis to please, How cross, how sullen, and how soon She shifts and changes like the moon. How false, how hollow she's in heart: And how she is her own least part: How high she's priz'd, and worth but small; Little thou'lt love, or not at all. 254. TO MUSIC. A SONG. Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell: Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies, Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears. 255. TO THE WESTERN WIND. Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair. Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers. 256. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SPARROW. AN ELEGY. Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here, Where spring-time smiles throughout the year? Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread The body of the under-dead? Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear, O! may no eye distil a tear For you once lost, who weep not here! Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but known This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own: And for this dead which under lies Wept out her heart, as well as eyes. But, endless peace, sit here and keep My Phil the time he has to sleep; And thousand virgins come and weep To make these flowery carpets show Fresh as their blood, and ever grow, Till passengers shall spend their doom: Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb. _Phil_, otherwise Philip or Phip, was a pet name for a sparrow. _Virgil's gnat_, the _Culex_ attributed to Virgil. 257. TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 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.