The Long Life.

LOve from Times wings hath stoln the feathers sure,
He has, and put them to his own;
For Hours of late as long as Days endure,
And very Minutes, Hours are grown.

The various Motions of the turning Year,
Belong not now at all to Mee:
Each Summers Night does Lucies now appear,
Each Winters Day St. Barnabie.

How long a space, since first I lov'd, it is?
To look into a glass I fear;
And am surpriz'd with wonder when I miss,
Grey-hairs and wrinkles there.

Th'old Patriarchs age and not their happi'ness too,
Why does hard fate to us restore?
Why does Loves Fire thus to Mankind renew,
What the Flood washt away before?

Sure those are happy people that complain,
O' th' shortness of the days of man;
Contract mine, Heaven, and bring them back again
To th'ordinary Span.

If when your gift, long Life, I disapprove,
I too ingratefull seem to bee;
Punish me justly, Heaven; make Her to love,
And then 'twill be too short for Mee.