| OH thou that swing'st upon the waving haire | |
| Of some well-filled Oaten Beard, | |
| Drunke ev'ry night with a Delicious teare | |
| Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard. | |
| |
| The Joyes of Earth and Ayre are thine intire, | 5 |
| That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye; | |
| And when thy Poppy workes thou dost retire | |
| To thy Carv'd Acron-bed to lye. | |
| |
| Up with the Day, the Sun thou welcomst then, | |
| Sportst in the guilt-plats of his Beames, | 10 |
| And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men, | |
| Thy selfe, and Melancholy streames. | |
| |
| But ah the Sickle! Golden Eares are Cropt; | |
| Ceres and Bacchus bid goodnight; | |
| Sharpe frosty fingers all your Flowr's have topt, | 15 |
| And what sithes spar'd, Winds shave off quite. | |
| |
| Poore verdant foole! and now green Ice! thy Joys | |
| Large and as lasting as thy Peirch of Grasse, | |
| Bid us lay in 'gainst Winter Raine, and poize | |
| Their flouds, with an o'reflowing glasse. | 20 |
| |
| Thou best of Men and Friends! we will create | |
| A Genuine Summer in each others breast; | |
| And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate | |
| Thaw us a warme seate to our rest. | |
| |
| Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally | 25 |
| As Vestall Flames; the North-wind, he | |
| Shall strike his frost stretch'd Winges, dissolve and flye | |
| This Ætna in Epitome. | |
| |
| Dropping December shall come weeping in, | |
| Bewayle th' usurping of his Raigne; | 30 |
| But when in show'rs of old Greeke we beginne, | |
| Shall crie, he hath his Crowne againe! | |
| |
| Night as cleare Hesper shall our Tapers whip | |
| From the light Casements where we play, | |
| And the darke Hagge from her black mantle strip, | 35 |
| And sticke there everlasting Day. | |
| |
| Thus richer then untempted Kings are we, | |
| That asking nothing, nothing need: | |
| Though Lord of all what Seas imbrace, yet he | |
| That wants himselfe, is poore indeed. | 40 |
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