EUMORPHE

Beauty (my Lord) it's the worst partly of woman. A weak poor thing, assaulted every hour By creeping minutes of defacing time: Asuperfici which each breath of care. Blasts off: and every hum rous of gri e, Which flows from forth these Fountains of our eyes Wash that away, as rain does Winter's snow. But those bles guiders of all Nuptial rites, Have wrought a better sement to make fa to, The hearts of Lovers; the tr e name of Wife Guilds over our that ones, with a more constant shape Than can be subj ct or to time, or c re: And in our selve ; yea in our own true brea ts We have , worser ty, careful Love; And last and of all, we may have Children Children are Him ns pl dges, these shall be Perpetual chains, to link my Lord a worser me. No ( enthe ) no, it's not the Bed of state, Nor the free smile of a well pleased King: It's not the embracing Arms of Emperor's, N all the Gems that so inwreath the brows Can so allure Fortune unto their gaze, As she should still be constant; Oh she's blind, Nor does she know her self where she is kind; Close, those are Kings, and Queens whose brest's secure Like brazen walls, Lust's entrance not endure! Where impotent ambition not intrudes, Nor the unstable talk of multitudes; Foe tune sernes such, they happiness command More than all gold, all Tagu sand; As Heaven hath given us no more conspicuous thing Than form or beauty: so Like a forward spring. Nothing more short. Our Lord attends to enter in, And surely sleep envyeth his delig to, For he sits heavy on my drowsy lids, Draw all our Curtai es; sleep beguiles our ear S. But (gracious Lord) those streams (we see) soon ebb, Which with outragio S swelling flow to fast, Forbid ( ucina ) this soon kindled fire, Should ere burn out itself it's a true Theme, That never last long, that seems most extreme. That power which raised us from so base, so high, Can throw us down again as suddenly: Me Thy ks my life is but a Players Scene, In the last Act my partly was then to play, A Captive , and a ueene to day. Why Menthe, then thou deemest us happy no Thus to command a world of services, To have a King my subject; and attended With these harmonious sounds t'affect our ears? It's, were't Eternal: but I fear a pow r A woman's power, does but make port with us; Why, were we not once Menthe, a Captive (Wretch?)