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Beauty! Love's fcene and masquerade,
So gay by well-plac'd lights and distance made!
Which light or base we find, when we
*Tis chiefly night which men to thee allow,
And chufe t' enjoy thee when thou least art thou.
Beauty! thou active, paffive ill!
Which dy't thyfelf as faft as thou dost kill!
Shortliv'd and low, tho' thou wouldst seem a star,
Pretending to dwell richly in the eye,
Beauty! whofe conquests still are made
Thou frong wine which youth's fever doft enrage!
Thou tyrant! which leav'st no man free!
Thou fubtle thief! from whom nought safe can be! Thou murd'rer, whith hatt kill'd! and devil, which wouldit damn me!
As men in Greenland left beheld the fun
From their horizon run,
And thought upon the fad half year
Of cold and darkness they must suffer there:
So on my parting Mistress did look,
With fuch fwoln eyes my farewell took:
Ah! my fair Star! said I;
Ah! thofe blefs'd lands to which bright thou dost fly!
In vain the men of learning comfort me,
Say what they pleafe, I fay and fwear
'Tis beyond eighty, at least, if you 're not here.
It is, it is; I tremble with the froft,
And know that I the day have loft;
And those wild things which men they call,
I find to be but bears or foxes all.
Return, return, gay Planet of mine Eaft!
More fair and fresh rise up from thence to me.
Thou who, in many a propriety,
So truly art the fun to me,
Add one more likeness, which I'm fure you can,
And let me and my fun beget a man.
HERE, take my likeness with you, whilst 't is fo;
For when from hence you go,
The next fun's rifing will behold
Me pale, and lean, and old.
The man who did this Picture draw,
Will fwear next day my face he never faw.
Your prefence will fuch vigour give,
(Your presence, which makes all things live)
And abfence fo much alter me,
This will the fubftance, I the shadow, be.
When from your well-wrought cabinet you take it,
And your bright looks awake it,
Ah! be not frighted if you fee
The new-foul'd Picture gaze on thee,
And hear it breathe a figh or two;
For those are the first things that it will do.
My rival image will be then thought blefs'd,
But thou who, (if I know thee right)
I' th' fubftance doft not much delight,
Who then shall but my Picture's picture he.
No; to what purpose fhould I fpeak?
No; wretched Heart! fwell till you break!
She cannot love me if she would,
And, to say truth, 't were pity that she should.
No; to the grave thy forrows bear,
As filent as they will be there :
Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give
So handsomely the thing contrive,
That she may guiltless of it live:
So perish, that her killing thee
May a chance-medley, and no murder, be.
'Tis nobler much for me that I
To fall by her not loving than her hate.
And yet this death of mine, I fear,