That killing power is none of thine;
I gave it to thy voice and eyes;
Thy sweets, thy graces, all
Thou art my star, shinst in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrowd sphere
Lightning on him
that fixd thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate;
Let fools thy mystic form
I know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,
Knew her themselves through
all her veils.
On the Lady Mary Villiers
THE Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone; with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee, as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
in theirs thine own hard case:
For thou perhaps at thy return
Mayst find thy Darling in an urn.
THIS little vault, this narrow room,
Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam, that
gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darkend here,
For ever set to us: by Death
Sent to enflame the World
Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again;
A budding Star, that
might have grown
Into a Sun when it had blown.
This hopeful Beauty did create
New life in Loves declining
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.
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