If he, from Heav'n that filch'd that living Fire,
Condemn'd by J OVE to endlesse Torment bee,
I greatly marvell, how you still goe free,
That farre beyond P ROMETHEUS did aspire:
The Fire he stole, although of Heav'nly kind,
Which from above he craftily did take,
Of livelesse Clods, us living Men to make,
He did bestow in temper of the Mind.
But you broke into Heav'ns immortall store,
Where Vertue, Honour, Wit, and Beautie lay;
Which taking thence, you have escap'd away,
Yet stand as free as ere you did before:
Yet old P ROMETHEUS punish'd for his Rape.

Letters and Lines we see are soone defaced,
Metals doe waste, and fret with Cankers Rust,
The Diamond shall once consume to Dust,
And freshest Colours with foule staynes disgraced:
Paper and Inke can paint but naked Words,
To write with Bloud, of force offends the Sight;
And if with Teares I find them all too light,
And Sighes and Signes a silly Hope affords,
O sweetest Shadow, how thou serv'st my turne!
Which still shalt be, as long as there is Sunne;
Nor whilst the World is, never shall be done,
Whilst Moone shall shine, or any Fire shall burne:

That learned Father, which so firmely proves
The Soule of Man immortall and divine,
And doth the sev'rall Offices define:
Gives her that Name, as she the Body moves,
Then is she Love, imbracing Charitie,
Moving a Will in us, it is the Mind,
Retayning Knowledge, still the same in kind;
As intellectuall, it is Memorie,
In judging, Reason onely is her Name,
In speedie apprehension, it is Sense,
In Right or Wrong, they call her Conscience,
The Spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame:
These of the Soule the sev'rall Functions bee,

You not alone, when You are still alone,
O God from You, that I could private be,
Since You one were, I never since was one,
Since You in Me, my selfe since out of Me,
Transported from my Selfe, into Your being,
Though either distant, present yet to either,
Senselesse with too much Joy, each other seeing,
And onely absent, when Wee are together,
Give Me my Selfe, and take your Selfe againe,
Devise some meanes, but how I may forsake You,
So much is Mine, that doth with You remaine,
That taking what is Mine, with Me I take You;

To nothing fitter can I Thee compare,
Then to the Sonne of some rich Penny-father,
Who having now brought on his end with Care,
Leaves to his Sonne all he had heap'd together;
This new rich Novice, lavish of his chest,
To one Man gives, doth on another spend,
Then heere he riots, yet amongst the rest,
Haps to lend some to one true honest Friend.
Thy Gifts thou in Obscuritie doest waste,
False Friends thy kindnesse, borne but to deceive Thee;
Thy Love, that is on the unworthy plac'd,
Time hath thy Beautie, which with Age will leave thee;

As other men, so I myself do muse
Why in this sort I wrest invention so,
And why these giddy metaphors I use,
Leaving the path the greater part do go.
I will resolve you; I am lunatic,
And ever this in madmen you shall find:
What they last thought of, when the brain grew sick,
In most distraction they keep that in mind.
Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit,
Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain;
'Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit,
Bear with me, then, though troubled be my brain.
With diet and correction, men distraught

There's nothing grieves me, but that Age should haste,
That in my dayes I may not see thee old,
That where those two cleare sparkling Eyes are plac'd,
Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold.
That lovely, arched, yvorie, pollish'd Brow,
Defac'd with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
Thy daintie Hayre, so curl'd, and crisped now,
Like grizzled Mosse upon some aged Tree;
Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,
Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne,
Thy Pearly Teeth out of thy Head so cleane,

Love, in a Humor, play'd the Prodigall,
And bad my Senses to a solemne Feast;
Yet more to grace the Company withall,
Invites my Heart to be the chiefest Ghest:
No other Drinke would serve this Gluttons turne,
But precious Teares distilling from mine Eyne,
Which with my Sighes this Epicure doth burne,
Quaffing Carowses in this costly Wine;
Where, in his Cups o'rcome with foule Excesse,
Straightwayes he play's a swagg'ring Ruffins part,
And at the Banquet, in his Drunkennesse,
Slew his deare Friend, my kind and truest Heart:

How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
That now in Coaches trouble ev'ry Street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings,
Ere they be well wrap'd in their winding Sheet?
Where I to thee Eternitie shall give,
When nothing else remayneth of these dayes,
And Queenes her eafter shall be glad to live
Upon the Almes of thy superfluous prayse;
Virgins and Matrons reading these my Rimes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
That they shall grieve, they liv'd not in these Times,
To have seene thee, their Sexes onely glory:

Nothing but No and I, and I and No,
How fals it out so strangely you reply?
I tell yee (Faire) ile not be answered so,
With this affirming No, denying I.
I say, I Love, you sleightly answere I:
I say, You Love, you peule me out a No:
I say, I Die, you Eccho me with I:
Save mee I Crie, you sigh me out a No;
Must Woe and I, have naught but No and I?
No I, am I, if I no more can have;
Answere no more, with Silence make reply,
And let me take my selfe what I doe crave,
Let No and I, with I and you be so:
Then answere No and I, and I and No.