|
| Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, |
| She, and comparisons are odious. |
|
| Eleg. IX. |
| The Autumnall. |
|
| No Spring, nor Sūmers Beauty hath such grace, |
| As I have seene in one Autumnall face, |
| Young Beauties force your love, and that's a Rape, |
| This doth but counsaile, yet you cannot scape. |
| If t'were a shame to love, here t'were no shame: |
| Affections here take Reverences name. |
| Were her first yeares the Golden Age; That's true, |
| But now shee's gold oft tryed, and ever new. |
| That was her torrid and inflaming time, |
| This is her habitable Tropique clyme. |
| Faire eyes, who askes more heate than comes from hence, |
| He in a fevor wishes pestilence. |
| Call not these wrinkles, graves; If graves they were, |
| They were Loves graves; or else he is no where. |
| Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit |
| Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit. |
| And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, |
| He doth not digge a Grave, but build a Tombe. |
| Here dwels he, though he sojourne ev'ry where, |
| In Progresse, yet his standing house is here. |
| Here, where still Evening is, not noone, nor night; |
| Where no voluptuousnesse, yet all delight.
|
[CW: In] |