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To his Mistris upon the Bayes withered.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

To his Mistris upon the Bayes withered.

Fair Cruel, see the Bayes which thou
Didst send to crown my verse:
How well with Cypresse, and sad Ewe
Would it become my herse?
'Tis thy unkindnes that doth kill
The leaves, which fade like me,
Yet on the wreath but cast a smile,
'Twill seem another Tree.
Such shine will quicken what is dead,
Then send it me agen,
Which shall have vertue on my head,
To make the wearer green.
Thus in a frost I'le meet a flame,
And Phœbus Priest am made,
And Thee, I growing fresh, will name
My Nymph, my light, my shade.