But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest, How are my days deprived of life in you When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, By feignèd death life sweetly to renew; Part of my life, in that, you life deny: So every day we live, a day we die.
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Though thou be black as night And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! Though here thou liv'st disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth, That so have scorchèd thee As thou still black must be Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; --And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,-- The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd.
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine, Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee!
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep. Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright!
Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close. Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright!
Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver, Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright!
Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast: Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.