The Rose was sick and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood: Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept: The holy sisters, some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung. But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, As Heaven had spent all perfumes there. At last, when prayers for the dead And rites were all accomplishèd, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb. _255._ trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses. _256._ _Cherry-Ripe_ Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There Where my Julia’s lips do smile; There’s the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. _257._ _A Meditation for his Mistress_ You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood. You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine. You are like balm enclosèd well In amber or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty violet, Yet withered ere you can be set Within the virgin’s coronet. You are the queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song. _258._ _Delight in Disorder_ A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. _259._ _Upon Julia’s Clothes_ Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, --O how that glittering taketh me! _260._ _The Bracelet: To Julia_