Than me, the beggar. Oh then be
Kind to yourself, if not to me!
Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake!
For that lovely face will fail :
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun;
Most fleeting, when it is most dear;
'Tis gone, while we but


'tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twin'd,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow
White and cold as winter's snow.
That eye, which now is Cupid's nest,

and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose,
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose.
And what will then become of all
Those whom now you servants call ?
Like swallows, when your summer's done,
They'll fly, and seek some warrner sun.
' Then wisely choose one to your friend,
Whose love may (when your beauties end)
Remain still firm. Be provident,
And think before the summer's spent
Of following winter: like the ant
In plenty hoard for time of scant.
Cull out amongst the multitude
Of lovers that seek to intrude
Into your favour, one that may
Love for an age, not for a day;
For, when the storms of time have mov'd
Waves on that cheek which was belov'd;
When a fair lady's face is pin'd,
And yellow spread where red once shin'd;
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 lose this present minute;
For time and age will work that wrack,
Which time or age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each

his grave;

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,
You never know a second May.


Oh then be wise! and, whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason !
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But crop in time your beauty's flower,
Which will away, and doth together
Both bud and fade, both blow and wither!


Persuasions to enjoy.

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every grace,
Must fly from that forsaken face;

Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What still being gather’d, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.


When you the sun-burnt pilgrim see,

Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs ; Mark how, at first with bended knee,

He courts the chrystal nymphs, and flings His body to the earth, where he Prostrate adores the flowing deity.

But when his sweaty face is drench'd

In her cool waves ; when from her sweet Bosom his burning thirst is quench’d,

Then mark how with disdainful feet He kicks her banks, and from the place, That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace.

So shalt thou be despis’d, fair maid,

When by the sated lover tasted ; What first he did with tears invade,

Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted : When all thy virgin springs grow dry, When no streams shall be left, but in thine eye.


He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combin'd,

Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.


Ask me why I send


here This firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you This primrose, all bepearld with dew; I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.

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