TIME is the featherd thing,
And, whilst I praise
The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,
Leaving behind him as he flies
An unperceivàd dimness in thine eyes.
His minutes, whilst theyre
Do make us old;
And every sand of his fleet glass,
Increasing age as it doth pass,
Where flowers and roses do appear.
Whilst we do speak, our fire
Doth into ice expire,
turn to frost;
And ere we can
Know how our crow turns swan,
Or how a silver snow
Springs there where jet
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.
Since then the Night hath hurld
Darkness, Loves shade,
Over its enemy the Day, and made
Just such a blind and shapeless thing
As twas before light did from darkness spring,
Let us employ
And make shade pleasure:
Lets number out the hours by blisses,
And count the minutes by
Let the heavens new motions feel
And by our embraces wheel;
And whilst we try the way
which Love doth convey
Soul unto soul,
And mingling so
Makes them such raptures know
As makes them
In mutual ecstasy,
Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!
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