WHEN little more than boy in age,
I deem'd myself almost a sage;
But now seem worthier to be styl'd
For ignorance almost a child.

I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend,
For when at worst, they say, things always mend!

When to the inward darkness of my mind
I bid your face come, not one hue replies
Of that curved cheek, no, nor the faint-tinged rose
Of lips, nor smile between the mouth and eyes:
Only the eyes themselves, past telling, seem
To break in beauty in the twilight there,
And out of solitude your very ghost
Steals through the scarce-seen shadow of your hair.

O thou who pausest here,
With naught but some thorned wilding near
To tell of beauty; be not sad.
For he who in this grave is laid
Would give the all on earth he had
One moment but by thee to stand
And with warm hand touch hand.

Come death, come bands, nor do you shrink, my eares,
At those hard words mans cowardise calls feares.
Save those of feare, no other bands feare I;
Nor other death then this; the feare to dye.

Here, where our Lord once laid his Head,
Now the Grave lies buried.

One Eye? a thousand rather, and a Thousand more
To fix those full-fac't Glories, o he's poore
Of Eyes that has but Argus store,
Yet if thou'lt fill one poore Eye, with thy Heaven and Thee,
O grant (sweet Goodnesse) that one Eye may be

Thou hast the art on't Peter; and canst tell
To cast thy Nets on all occasions well.
When Christ calls, and thy Nets would have thee stay:
To cast them well's to cast them quite away.

The Rose is Love's own flower, and Love's no less
The Lily's tenderness.
Then half their dignity must Roses yield
To Lilies of the field?
Nay, diverse notes make up true harmony,
All-fashioned loves agree:
Love wears the Lily's whiteness, and Love glows
In the deep-hearted Rose.

You were born in the Spring
When the pretty birds sing
In sunbeamy bowers:
Then dress like a Fairy,
Dear dumpling my Mary,
In green and in flowers.