University of Virginia Library

43. The Blush.

Well may she sigh and blush to see
My love-dri'd cheeks how pale they be.
For her light love, and lean reward
Of my affection, leans so hard
Upon my vitals, that it strains
The crimson tincture from my veins,
And leaves my cheeks to be the right
Type of the Lady of the night.
But stay fond Muses, sure you err,
She wrongs not you, but you wrong her.
For if the slender Love that freez'd
In torid Zone of her, had squeez'd
The tincture from my cheeks, sure then
She would have gilded those agen,
By the continual blush and blaze
That darts (like Pæan) from her rayes.
Her tongue's the mintage, I the coin;
And as she speaks, this heart of mine
Is formed, as the signets be
To wax, so are thy words to me:
If then her words can wrest my nature,
Her blush may burnish my dull feature.
I, but the weakness of her love
Doth still perswade her to remove,
And vail her cheeks: so that the cause
Which from my face the tincture draws,
Doth also hinder and debar
My pined visage from repair.
Why then suppose thy self a fly,
So mayst thou buz beneath her eye;
Then her hot eyes or fragrant breath
May scortch or stifle me to death.
Oh that were best of all! 'tis better fate
To die Loves Martyr, then to live in hate.