To the Same (Mrs. S.), Thursday

Now Ime resolv'd the crasy Universe
Growes old, the Sun himselfe is nigh his hearse;
Seven Daughters in one week his youthfull rayes
Were wont to get; but since his strength decays
Six are the most: Thursday is lost; for we
Who boast our selves skill'd in th' Astronomy
Of your day-shedding eyes, by that light swear
That day is lost in which you not appear
That thy dark phancy might a giant-woe
Beget, thou makst a night Herculean too;
The late Astronomers have found it true,
We have lost many dayes, but 'tis by you
Our calculation erres; and we shall rage
If you go on to cheat us of our age;
One day in Seaven is lost; and in threescore
We are bereaved of nine yeares, and more:
So will your grief dilate it selfe like day,
And all as you, become untimely gray.