269   To Daisies, not to shut so soon

SHUT not so soon; the dull-eyed night
   ;Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
   Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closàd are,
   No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherd’s star
   Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close
   Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
   Itself to live or die.

270   The Night-piece: To Julia

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
      The shooting stars attend thee;
      And the elves also,
      Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o’-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
     But on, on thy way
     Not making a stay,
Since ghost there’s none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber:
What though the moon does slumber?
     The stars of the night
     Will lend thee their light
Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
     And when I shall meet
     Thy silv’ry feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee.

271   To Music, to becalm his Fever

CHARM me asleep, and melt me so
       With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish’d, hence I go
   Away in easy slumbers.
        Ease my sick head,
        And make my bed,
   Thou power that canst sever
        From me this ill,
        And quickly still,
        Though thou not kill
          My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
   From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
   And make it thus expire.
       Then make me weep
       My pains asleep;
   And give me such reposes
       That I, poor I,
       May think thereby
       I live and die
           ’Mongst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew,
   Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
   A baptim o’er the flowers.
       Melt, melt my pains
       With thy soft strains;
   That, having ease me given,
       With full delight
       I leave this light,
       And take my flight
         For Heaven.

272   To Dianeme

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.

273   To Œnone

WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee,
   When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
   And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline
   To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
   Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost
   Resolve to part with neither,
Why, yet to show that thou art just,
   Take me and mine together!