The Message

Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee;Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,Such forc'd fashions,And false passions,That they beMade by theeFit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmlesse heart againe,Which no unworthy thought could staine;But if it be taught by thineTo make jestingsOf protestings,And crosse bothWord and oath,Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,That I may know, and see thy lyes,And may laugh and joy, when thouArt in anguishAnd dost languishFor some oneThat will none,Or prove as false as thou art now.

Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,The Sunne is spent, and now his flasksSend forth light squibs, no constant rayes;The worlds whole sap is sunke:The generall balme th'hydroptique earth hath drunk,Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunke,Dead and enterr'd; yet all these seeme to laugh,Compar'd with mee, who am their Epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers beeAt the next world, that is, at the next Spring:For I am every dead thing,In whom love wrought new Alchimie.For his art did expresseA quintessence even from nothingnesse,From dull privations, and leane emptinesse:He ruin'd mee, and I am re-begotOf absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;I, by loves limbecke, am the graveOf all, that's nothing. Oft a floodHave wee two wept, and soDrownd the whole world, us two; oft did we growTo be two Chaosses, when we did showCare to ought else; and often absencesWithdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;Were I a man, that I were one,I needs must know; I should preferre,If I were any beast,Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,And love; All, all some properties invest;If I an ordinary nothing were,As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser SunneAt this time to the Goat is runneTo fetch new lust, and give it you,Enjoy your summer all;Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee callThis houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since thisBoth the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

I fixe mine eye on thine, and therePitty my picture burning in thine eye,My picture drown'd in a transparent teare,When I looke lower I espie;Hadst thou the wicked skillBy pictures made and mard, to kill,How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?

But now I have drunke thy sweet salt teares,And though thou poure more I'll depart;My picture vanish'd, vanish feares,That I can be endamag'd by that art;Though thou retaine of meeOne picture more, yet that will bee,Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.