  OUT OF THE ITALIAN. To thy lover Deere, discover That sweet blush of thine that shameth —When those roses It discloses— All the flowers that Nature nameth. In free ayre, Flow thy haire; That no more Summer's best dresses, Bee beholden For their golden Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses. O deliver Love his quiver; From thy eyes he shoots his arrowes: Where Apollo Cannot follow: Featherd with his mother's sparrowes. O envy not —That we dye not— Those deere lips whose doore encloses All the Graces In their places, Brother pearles, and sister roses. From these treasures Of ripe pleasures One bright smile to cleere the weather. Earth and Heaven Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. The aire does wooe thee, Winds cling to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee, Storme and thunder Would sit under, And keepe silence round about thee. But if Nature's Common creatures, So deare glories dare not borrow: Yet thy beauty Owes a duty, To my loving, lingring sorrow, When to end mee Death shall send mee Thine eyes' Graces Gild their faces, And those terrors shall delight mee. When my dying Life is flying, Those sweet aires that often slew mee Shall revive mee, Or reprive mee, And to many deaths renew mee. |
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