Meditation For His Mistress

You are a Tulip seen to-day,

But,

Dearest, of so short a stay,

That where you grew, scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower;

Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,

Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud,

Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and

Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,

And can with tendrils love entwine;

Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.

You are like Balm, enclosed

In amber, or some crystal shell;

Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty Violet;

Yet wither'd, ere you can be

Within the virgins coronet.

You are the Queen all flowers among;

But die you must, fair maid, ere long,

As he, the maker of this song.