When fourty nights shall beside you brow
|
and dig deep wounds in your beauty now
|
Your youth's proud livery so gazed on me
|
tomorrow will be darkened sealed
|
|
Look how a bird lies tangeled in a net
|
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fred
|
So fastened in her arms the favoured lies
|
She found more beauty in his varied eyes
|
|
Cut is the brunch that might be grown
|
with you faith, the treasure of your lusty days
|
|
Then being asked where all your beauty lies
|
I say it to your deep-sunken eyes
|
"As if the dead the living should exceed
|
possessed by heavens heart and hand"
|
|
He burns with basful shame
|
She with her tears does quench the maiden
|
burning off her cheeks
|
Then with her windy sighs and golden hands
|
to fain and blow them dry again she seeks
|
|
Look how a painter would surpass his life
|
His art with nature's workmanship at strife
|
In limmming out a well-proportioned steed
|
as if the dead the living should exceed
|
|
-----------------
|
The Bolt Of Cupid Fell
|
| Darkseed |
