Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose
Be her teeth ill hung or set
And her grinders black as jet
Be her cheeks so shallow too
As to show her tongue wag through
Hath she thin hair, hath she none
She’s to me a paragon.
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Come, come away
Must I here stayBecause you’re slow,And will continue so;–Troth, lady, no.I scorn to beA slave to state;And since I’m free,I will not wait,Henceforth at such a rate,For needy fate.If you desireMy spark should glow,The peeping fireYou must blow;Or I shall quickly growTo frost, or snow.
Stay while ye will, or go,
Yet trust me, I shall knowThe place where I may find ye.Within my Lucia’s cheek,(Whose livery ye wear)Play ye at hide or seek,I’m sure to find ye there.
Every time seems short to be
But one half-hour that’s made up hereWith grief, seems longer than a year.
Virgins promised when I died,
Duly, morn and evening, come,And with flowers dress my tomb.–Having promised, pay your debtsMaids, and here strew violets.
Thou see’st me, Lucia, this year droop;
Let crutches then provided beTo shore up my debility:Then, while thou laugh’st, I’ll sighing cry,A ruin underpropt am I:Don will I then my beadsman’s gown;And when so feeble I am grownAs my weak shoulders cannot bearThe burden of a grasshopper;Yet with the bench of aged sires,When I and they keep termly fires,With my weak voice…
These fresh beauties, we can prove,
Turn’d to flowers: still in some,Colours go and colours come.