University of Virginia Library

An Elegie.

[That Love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive]

That Love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive
Till the sower Minute comes of taking leave,
And then I taste it. But as men drinke up
In hast the bottome of a med'cin'd Cup,
And take some sirrup after; so doe I
To put all relish from my memorie
Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet
Shortly againe: and make our absence sweet.
This makes me Mrs that sometime by stealth
Under another Name, I take your health;
And turne the Ceremonies of those Nights
I give, or owe my friends, into your Rites,
But ever without blazon, or least shade
Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made;
For though Love thrive, and may grow up with cheare,
And free societie, hee's borne else-where,
And must be bred, so to conceale his birth,
As neither wine doe rack it out, or mirth.
Yet should the Lover still be ayrie and light
In all his Actions ratified to spright
Not like a Midas shut up in himselfe,
And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,
Keepe in reserv'd in his Dark-lanterne face,
As if that ex'lent Dulnesse were Loves grace;
No Masters no, the open merrie Man
Moves like a sprightly River, and yet can
Keepe secret in his Channels what he breedes
'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes.
They looke at best like Creame-bowles, and you soone
Shall find their depth: they're sounded with a spoone.
They may say Grace, and for Loves Chaplaines passe;
But the grave Lover ever was an Asse;
Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come
Out with the other, for hee's still at home;
Like the dull wearied Crane that (come on land)
Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand.
Where he that knowes will like a Lapwing flie
Farre from the Nest, and so himselfe belie.
To others as he will deserve the Trust
Due to that one, that doth believe him just.
And such your Servant is, who vowes to keepe
The Jewell of your name, as close as sleepe
Can lock the Sense up, or the heart a thought,
And never be by time, or folly brought,
Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of Wine,
The sinne of Boast, or other countermine
(Made to blow up loves secrets) to discover
That Article, may nor become our lover:
Which in assurance to your brest I tell,
If I had writ no word, but Deare, farewell.