The Long Life.
1
Love
from Times wings hath stoln the feathers sure,
He has, and put them to his own;
For Hours of late as long as Days endure,
And very Minutes, Hours are grown.
2
The various Motions of the turning Year,
Belong not now at all to Me:
Each Summers Night does Lucies now appear,
Each Winters day St. Barnaby.
3
How long a space, since first I lov'd, it is?
To look into a glass I fear;
And am surpriz'd with wonder when I miss,
Grey-hairs and wrinkles there.
4
Th' old Patriarchs age and not their happ'iness too,
Why does hard fate to us restore?
Why does Loves Fire thus to Mankind renew,
What the Flood washt away before?
5
Sure those are happy people that complain,
O' th' shortness of the days of man:
Contract mine, Heaven, and bring them back again
To th' ordinary Span.
6
If when your gift, long Life, I disapprove,
I too ingrateful seem to be;
Punish me justly, Heaven; make Her to love,
And then 'twill be too short for me.