Classic Poem

1
What bright soft thing is this?
Sweet Mary thy faire Eyes expence?
A moist sparke it is,
A watry Diamond; from whence
The very Terme, I think, was found
The water of a Diamond.
2

O 'tis not a Teare,
'Tis a starre about to drop
From thine eye its spheare;
The Sunne will stoope and take it up.
Proud will his sister be to weare
This thine eyes Jewell in her Eare.
3

O 'tis a Teare,
Too true a Teare; for no sad eyne,
How sad so e're
Raine so true a Teare as thine;
Each Drop leaving a place so deare,
Weeps for it selfe, is its owne Teare.
4

Such a Pearle as this is,
(Slipt from Aurora's dewy Brest)
The Rose buds sweet lip kisses;
And such the Rose its selfe when vext
With ungentle flames, does shed,
Sweating in too warme a Bed.
5

Such the Maiden Gemme
By the wanton Spring put on,
Peeps from her Parent stemme,
And blushes on the manly Sun:
This watry Blossome of thy Eyne
Ripe, will make the richer Wine.
6

Faire drop, why quak'st thou so?
'Cause thou streight must lay thy Head
In the Dust? ô no;
The Dust shall never bee thy Bed:
A pillow for thee will I bring,
Stuft with Downe of Angels wing.
7

Thus carryed up on high,
(For to Heaven thou must goe)
Sweetly shalt thou lye,
And in soft slumbers bath thy woe;
Till the singing Orbes awake thee,
And one of their bright Chorus make thee.
8

There thy selfe shalt bee
An eye, but not a weeping one,
Yet I doubt of thee,
Whither th'hadst rather have shone
An eye of Heaven; or still shine here
In th'Heaven of Mary's eye, a Teare.