I've paid thee what I promis'd; that's not all; Besides I give thee here a verse that shall (When hence thy circummortal part is gone), Arch-like, hold up thy name's inscription. Brave men can't die, whose candid actions are Writ in the poet's endless calendar: Whose vellum and whose volume is the sky, And the pure stars the praising poetry. Farewell _Circummortal_, more than mortal. _Candid_, fair. 445. TO JULIA IN THE TEMPLE. Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one To make up now a congregation. Let's to the altar of perfumes then go, And say short prayers; and when we have done so, Then we shall see, how in a little space Saints will come in to fill each pew and place. 446. TO OENONE. What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own? For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart. Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why! yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together. 447. HIS WEAKNESS IN WOES. I cannot suffer; and in this my part Of patience wants. _Grief breaks the stoutest heart._ 448. FAME MAKES US FORWARD. To print our poems, the propulsive cause Is fame--the breath of popular applause. 449. TO GROVES. Ye silent shades, whose each tree here Some relique of a saint doth wear, Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of love: Here is the legend of those saints That died for love, and their complaints: Their wounded hearts and names we find Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind. Give way, give way to me, who come Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom: And have deserv'd as much (love knows) As to be canonis'd 'mongst those Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your greeny calendar: By all those virgins' fillets hung Upon your boughs, and requiems sung For saints and souls departed hence (Here honour'd still with frankincense); By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering to the dead; By all those true love-knots that be With mottoes carv'd on every tree; By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me: By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me, forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ: That my poor name may have the glory To live remembered in your story. _Phyllis_, the Thracian princess who hanged herself for love of Demophoon. _Iphis_, a Cyprian youth who hanged himself for love of Anaxaretes. 450. AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN.