Part 17 (1/2)

You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with tendrils love entwine; Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.

You are like Balm, enclosed well In amber, or some crystal sh.e.l.l; Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty Violet; Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgins coronet.

You are the Queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

140. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may: Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

--Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

EPIGRAMS

141. POSTING TO PRINTING

Let others to the printing-press run fast; Since after death comes glory, I'll not haste.

142. HIS LOSS

All has been plunder'd from me but my wit: Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.

143. THINGS MORTAL STILL MUTABLE

Things are uncertain; and the more we get, The more on icy pavements we are set.