冰雹,泉水,姐姐的父母silver-footed瑞来斯ls! Ever bubbling things, Thawing crystal, snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine. But we're deceived all. Stars indeed they are, too true, For they but seem to fall, As heav'n's other spangles do. It is not for our earth and us To shine in things so precious. Upwards thou dost weep; Heavn's bosom drinks the gentle stream; Where the milky rivers creep, Thine floats above, and is the cream. Waters above th' heav'n's, what they be We're taught best by thy tears and thee. Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long. Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair; Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. When sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, For she is a queen, Then is she dressed by none but thee; Then, and only then, she wears Her proudest pearls; I mean thy tears. The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck; Much rather would it be thy tear, And leave them both to tremble here. There's no need at all That the balsam-sweating bough So coyly should let fall His med'cinable tears, for now Nature hath learn't extract a dew More sovereign and sweet from you. You let the poor drops weep, Weeping is the ease of woe; Softly let them creep, Sad that they are vanquished so; They, though to others no relief, Balsam may be for their own grief. Such the maiden gem By the purpling vine put on, Peeps from her parent stem And blushes at the bridegroom sun; This wat'ry blossom of thy eyne, Ripe, will make the richer wine. When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heav'n will make a feast, Angels with crystal vials come And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine. Golden though he be, Golden Tagus murmurs though; Were his way by thee, Content and quiet he would go; So much more rich would he esteem Thy silver, than his golden stream. Well does the May that lies Smiling in thy cheeks confess The April in thine eyes; Mutual sweetness they express; No April e'er lent kinder showers, Nor May returned more faithful flowers. O cheeks! beds of chaste loves By your own showers seasonably dashed; Eyes! nests of milky doves In your own wells decently washed; O wit of Love! that thus could place Fountain and garden in one face. O sweet contest, of woes With loves, of tears with smiles disputing! O fair and friendly foes, Each other kissing and confuting! While rain and sunshine, cheeks and eyes, Close in kind contrarieties. But can these fair floods be Friends with the bosom fires that fill thee? Can so great flames agree Eternal tears should thus distill thee? O floods, O fires, O suns, O showers! Mixed and made friends by Love's sweet powers. 'Twas his well-pointed dart That digged these wells and dressed this vine; And taught the wounded heart The way into these weeping eyne. Vain loves, avaunt! bold hands, forbear! The Lamb hath dipped His white foot here. And now where'er He strays Among the Galilean mountains, Or more unwelcome ways, He's followed by two faithful fountains, Two walking baths, two weeping motions, Portable and compendious oceans. O thou, thy Lord's fair store! In thy so rich and rare expenses, Even when He showed most poor, He might provoke the wealth of princes; What prince's wanton'st pride e'er could Wash with silver, wipe with gold? Who is that King, but He Who call'st His crown to be called thine, That thus can boast to be Waited on by a wand'ring mine, A voluntary mint, that strows Warm silver showers where'er He goes! O precious prodigal! Fair spendthrift of thyself! thy measure, Merciless love, is all, Even to the last pearl in thy treasure; All places, times, and objects be Thy tears' sweet opportunity. Does the day-star rise? Still thy tears do fall and fall. Does day close his eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all. Let night or day do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still. Does thy song lull the air? Thy falling tear