Hail, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
Still spending, never spent;
I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.
But we're deceived all.
Stars indeed they are, too true,
For they but seem to fall,
As heav'n's other spangles do.
It is not for our earth and
To shine in things so precious.
Upwards thou dost weep;
Heavn's bosom drinks the gentle stream;
Where the milky rivers creep,
Thine floats above, and is the cream.
Waters above th' heav'n's, what they
We're taught best by thy tears and thee.
Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.
Not in the evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping
For the sun that dies,
Sits sorrow with a face so fair;
Nowhere but here did ever
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
When sorrow would be
In her brightest majesty,
For she is a queen,
Then is she dressed by none but thee;
Then, and only then, she
Her proudest pearls;
I mean thy tears.
The dew no more will
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more will sleep,
Nuzzled in the lily's neck;
Much rather would it be thy tear,
And leave them both to tremble here.
There's no need at
That the balsam-sweating
So coyly should let
His med'cinable tears, for
Nature hath learn't extract a
More sovereign and sweet from you.
You let the poor drops weep,
Weeping is the ease of woe;
Softly let them creep,
Sad that they are vanquished so;
They, though to others no relief,
Balsam may be for their own grief.
Such the maiden
By the purpling vine put on,
Peeps from her parent
And blushes at the bridegroom sun;
This wat'ry blossom of thy eyne,
Ripe, will make the richer wine.
When some new bright
Takes up among the stars a room,
And Heav'n will make a feast,
Angels with crystal vials
And draw from these full eyes of
Their Master's water, their own wine.
Golden though he be,
Golden Tagus murmurs though;
Were his way by thee,
Content and quiet he would go;
So much more rich would he
Thy silver, than his golden stream.
Well does the May that
Smiling in thy cheeks
The April in thine eyes;
Mutual sweetness they express;
No April e'er lent kinder showers,
Nor May returned more faithful flowers.
O cheeks! beds of chaste
By your own showers seasonably dashed;
Eyes! nests of milky
In your own wells decently washed;
O wit of Love! that thus could
Fountain and garden in one face.
O sweet contest, of
With loves, of tears with smiles disputing!
O fair and friendly foes,
Each other kissing and confuting!
While rain and sunshine, cheeks and eyes,
Close in kind contrarieties.
But can these fair floods
Friends with the bosom fires that fill thee?
Can so great flames
Eternal tears should thus distill thee?
O floods,
O fires,
O suns,
O showers!
Mixed and made friends by Love's sweet powers.'Twas his well-pointed
That digged these wells and dressed this vine;
And taught the wounded
The way into these weeping eyne.
Vain loves, avaunt! bold hands, forbear!
The Lamb hath dipped His white foot here.
And now where'er He
Among the Galilean mountains,
Or more unwelcome ways,
He's followed by two faithful fountains,
Two walking baths, two weeping motions,
Portable and compendious oceans.
O thou, thy Lord's fair store!
In thy so rich and rare expenses,
Even when He showed most poor,
He might provoke the wealth of princes;
What prince's wanton'st pride e'er
Wash with silver, wipe with gold?
Who is that King, but
Who call'st His crown to be called thine,
That thus can boast to
Waited on by a wand'ring mine,
A voluntary mint, that
Warm silver showers where'er He goes!
O precious prodigal!
Fair spendthrift of thyself! thy measure,
Merciless love, is all,
Even to the last pearl in thy treasure;
All places, times, and objects
Thy tears' sweet opportunity.
Does the day-star rise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
Does day close his eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
Let night or day do what they will,
Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
Does thy song lull the air?
Thy falling tears keep faithful time.
Does thy sweet-breathed
Up in clouds in incense climb?
Still at each sigh, that is, each stop,
A bead, that is, a tear, does drop.
At these thy weeping gates,
Watching their wat'ry motion,
Each winged moment waits,
Takes his tear and gets him gone;
By thine eye's tinct ennobled thus,
Time lays him up, he's precious.
Not, "So long she lived,"Shall thy tomb report of thee;
But, "So long she grieved,"Thus must we date thy memory.
Others by moments, months and years,
Measure their ages, thou by tears.
So do perfumes expire;
So sigh tormented sweets,
With proud unpitying fire;
Such tears the suff'ring rose that's vexed With ungentle flames does shed,
Sweating in a too warm bed.
Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes,
Your faithful mothers,
What make you here?
What hopes can
You to be born?
What cause can
You from those nests of noble sorrow?
Whither away so fast?
For sure the sordid
Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
Sweet, whiter haste you then?
O
Why you trip so fast away!"We go not to
The darlings of Aurora's bed,
The rose's modest cheek,
Nor the violet's humble head;
Though the field's eyes, too, weepers
Because they want such tears as we."Much less mean we to
The fortune of inferior gems,
Preferred to some proud face,
Or perched upon feared diadems:
Crowned heads are toys.
We go to meetA worthy object, our Lord's feet."
