The Weeper.

HAile Sister Springs,
Parents of Silver-forded rills!
Ever bubling things!
Thawing Christall … Snowy Hills!
Still spending, never spent; I meane
Thy faire Eyes sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy faire Eyes bee,
Heavens of ever-falling stars,
Tis seed-time still with thee
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares
Promise the earth; to countershine
What ever makes Heavens fore-head fine.

But wee are deceived all,
Stars they are indeed too true,
For they but seeme to fall
As Heavens other spangles doe:
It is not for our Earth and us,
To shine in things so pretious.

Vpwards thou dost weepe,
Heavens bosome drinks the gentle streame.
Where th' milky rivers meet,
Thine Crawles above and is the Creame.
Heaven, of such faire floods as this,
Heaven the Christall Ocean is.

Every morne from hence,
A briske Cherub something sips
Whose soft influence
Adds sweetnesse to his sweetest lips.
Then to his Musicke, and his song
Tastes of this breakefast all day long.

When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a roome,
And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their Bottles come;
And draw from these full Eyes of thine,
Their Masters water, their owne Wine.

The dew no more will weepe,
The Primroses pale cheeke to decke,
The deaw no more will sleepe,
Nuzzel'd in the Lillies necke.
Much rather would it tremble heere,
And leave them both to bee thy Teare.

Not the soft Gold which
Steales from the Amber-weeping Tree,
Makes sorrow halfe so Rich,
As the drops distil'd from thee.
Sorrowes best Iewels lye in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the Keyes.

When sorrow would be seene
In her brightest Majesty,
(For shee …s a Queen)
Then is shee drest by none but thee.
Then, and onely then shee weares
Her richest Pearles, I meane thy Tea…es.

Not in the Evenings Eyes
When they red with weeping are,
For the Sun that dyes,
Si…s sorrow with a face so faire.
Nowhere but heere did ever meet
Sweetnesse so sad, sadnes so sweet.

Sadnesse all the while
Shee sits in such a Throne as this,
Can doe nought but smile,
Nor beleeves shee sadnesse is
Gladnesse it selfe would bee more glad
To bee made so sweetly sad.

There is no need at all
That the Balsame-sweating bough
So coyly should let fall,
His med'cinable Teares; for now
Nature hath learn't t' extract a dew,
More soveraigne and sweet from you.

Yet let the poore drops weepe,
Weeping is the case of woe,
Softly let them creepe
Sad that they are vanquish't so,
They, though to others no releife
May Balsame bee for their own grief.

Golden though hee bee,
Golden Tagus murmurs though,
Might hee flow from thee
Content and quiet would he goe,
Richer far does he esteeme
Thy silver, then his golden streame.

Well does the May that lyes
Smiling in thy cheekes, confesse,
The April in thine eyes,
Mutuall sweetnesse they expresse.
No April e're lent softer showres,
Nor May returned fairer flowers.

Thus dost thou melt the yeare
Into a weeping motion,
Each minute waiteth heere;
Takes his teare and gets him gone;
By thine eyes tinct enobled thus
Time layes him up: he's pretious.

Time as by thee he passes,
Makes thy ever-watry eyes
His Hower-Glasses.
By them his steps he rectifies.
The sands he us'd no longer please,
For his owne sands hee'l use thy seas.

Does thy song lull the Ayre?
Thy teares just Cadence still keeps time.
Does thy sweet breath'd Prayer
Vp in clouds of Incense climbe?
Still at each sigh, that is each stop:
A bead, that is a teare doth drop.

Does the Night arise?
Still thy teares doe fall, and fall.
Does night loose her eyes?
Still the fountaine weeps for all.
Let night or day doe what they will
Thou hast thy taske, thou weepest still.

Not, so long she liv'd,
Will thy tombe report of thee
But so long she greiv'd,
Thus must we date thy memory.
Others by Dayes, by Monthes, by Yeares
Measure their Ages, Thou by Teares.

Say watry Brothers
Yee simpering sons of those faire eyes,
Your fertile Mothers.
What hath our world that can entice
You to be borne? what is't can borrow
You from her eyes swolne wombes of sorrow.

Whither away so fast?
O whither? for the sluttish Earth
Your sweetnesse cannot tast
Nor does the dust deserve your Birth.
Whither hast ye then? o say
Why yee trip so fast away?

We goe not to seeke
The darlings of Aurora's bed,
The Roses modest cheeke
Nor the Violets humble head.
No such thing; we goe to meet
A worthier object, Our Lords feet.