The Weeper

Hail, sister springs!Parents of syluer-footed rills!Euer-bubling things!Thawing crystall! snowy hillsStill spending, neuer spent! I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene!

Heauens thy fair eyes be;Heauens of euer-falling starres.'Tis seed-time still with thee;And starres thou sow'st, whose haruest daresPromise the Earth, to counter-shineWhateuer makes heaun's forehead fine.

But we' are deceiued all:Starres indeed they are too true;For they but seem to fall,As heaun's other spangles doe:It is not for our Earth and vsTo shine in things so pretious.

Vpwards thou dost weep:Heaun's bosome drinks the gentle stream.Where th' milky riuers creep,Thine floates aboue, and is the cream.Waters aboue th' heauns, what they beWe' are taught best by thy teares and thee.

Euery morn from hence,A brisk cherub something sippes,Whose sacred influenceAddes sweetnes to his sweetest lippes;Then to his musick; and his songTasts of this breakfast all day long.

When some new bright guestTakes vp among the starres a room,And Heaun will make a feast:Angels with crystall violls come phialsAnd draw from these full eyes of thine,Their Master's water, their own wine.

The deaw no more will weepThe primrose's pale cheek to deck:The deaw no more will sleepNuzzel'd in the lilly's neck;Much rather would it be thy tear,And leaue them both to tremble here.

Not the soft gold whichSteales from the amber-weeping tree,Makes Sorrow halfe so richAs the drops distil'd from thee.Sorrowe's best iewels lye in theseCaskets, of which Heaven keeps the keyes.

When Sorrow would be seenIn her brightest majesty:(For she is a Queen):Then is she drest by none but thee.Then, and only then, she wearesHer proudest pearles: I mean, thy teares.

Not in the Euening's eyes,When they red with weeping areFor the Sun that dyes;Sitts Sorrow with a face so fair.Nowhere but here did ever meetSweetnesse so sad, sadnesse so sweet.

Sadnesse all the whileShee sits in such a throne as this,Can doe nought but smile,Nor beleeves she Sadnesse is:Gladnesse it selfe would be more glad,To bee made soe sweetly sad.

There's no need at all,That the balsom-sweating boughSo coyly should let fallHis med'cinable teares; for nowNature hath learnt to' extract a deawMore soueraign and sweet, from you.

Yet let the poore drops weep(Weeping is the ease of Woe):Softly let them creep,Sad that they are vanquish't so.They, though to others no releife,Balsom may be for their own greife.

Golden though he be,Golden Tagus murmures though.Were his way by thee,Content and quiet he would goe;Soe much more rich would he esteemThy syluer, then his golden stream.

Well does the May that lyesSmiling in thy cheeks, confesseThe April in thine eyes;Mutuall sweetnesse they expresse.No April ere lent kinder showres,Nor May return'd more faithfull flowres.

O cheeks! Bedds of chast loues,By your own showres seasonably dash't.Eyes! Nests of milky doues,In your own wells decently washt.O wit of Loue! that thus could placeFountain and garden in one face.

O sweet contest! of woesWith loues; of teares with smiles disputing!O fair and freindly foes,Each other kissing and confuting!While rain and sunshine, cheekes and eyesClose in kind contrarietyes.

But can these fair flouds beFreinds with the bosom-fires that fill thee!Can so great flames agreeAeternal teares should thus distill thee!O flouds! O fires! O suns! O showres!Mixt and made freinds by Loue's sweet powres.

'Twas his well-pointed dartThat digg'd these wells, and drest this wine;And taught the wounded heartThe way into these weeping eyn.Vain loues auant! bold hands forbear!The Lamb hath dipp't His white foot here.

And now where'ere He strayes,Among the Galilean mountaines,Or more vnwellcome wayes;He's follow'd by two faithfull fountaines;Two walking baths, two weeping motions,Portable, and compendious oceans.

O thou, thy Lord's fair store!In thy so rich and rare expenses,Euen when He show'd most poorHe might prouoke the wealth of princes.What prince's wanton'st pride e'er couldWash with syluer, wipe with gold?

Who is that King, but HeWho calls 't His crown, to be call'd thine,That thus can boast to beWaited on by a wandring mine,A voluntary mint, that strowesWarm, syluer showres wher're He goes?

O pretious prodigall!Fair spend-thrift of thy-self! thy measure(Mercilesse loue!) is all.Euen to the last pearle in thy threasure: thesaurus, Latin.All places, times, and obiects beThy teares' sweet opportunity.

Does the day-starre rise?Still thy teares doe fall and fall.Does Day close his eyes?Still the fountain weeps for all.Let Night or Day doe what they will,Thou hast thy task: thou weepest still.

Does thy song lull the air?Thy falling teares keep faithfull time.Does thy sweet-breath'd praireVp in clouds of incense climb?Still at each sigh, that is, each stop,A bead, that is, a tear, does drop.

At these thy weeping gates(Watching their watry motion),Each winged moment waits:Takes his tear, and gets him gone.By thine ey's tinct enobled thus,Time layes him vp; he's pretious.

Time, as by thee He passes,Makes thy ever-watry eyesHis hower-glasses.By them His steps He rectifies.The sands He us'd, no longer please,For His owne sands Hee'l use thy seas.

Not, 'so long she liued,'Shall thy tomb report of thee;But, 'so long she grieued:'Thus must we date thy memory.Others by moments, months, and yearesMeasure their ages; thou, by teares.

So doe perfumes expire,So sigh tormented sweets, opprestWith proud vnpittying fire.Such teares the suffring rose, that's vextWith vngentle flames, does shed,Sweating in a too warm bed.

Say, ye bright brothers,The fugitiue sons of those fair eyes,Your fruitfull mothers!What make you here? what hopes can 'ticeYou to be born? what cause can borrowYou from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast?For sure the sluttish earthYour sweetnes cannot tast,Nor does the dust deserve your birth.Sweet, whither hast you then? O sayWhy you trip so fast away?

We goe not to seekThe darlings of Aurora's bed,The rose's modest cheek,Nor the violet's humble head.Though the feild's eyes too Weepers be,Because they want such teares as we.

Much lesse mean we to traceThe fortune of inferior gemmes,Preferr'd to some proud face,Or pertch't vpon fear'd diadems:Crown'd heads are toyes. We goe to meetA worthy object, our Lord's feet.