Jasper Mayne.

1604-1672

304   Time

       TIME is the feather’d thing,
            And, whilst I praise
       The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,
                 Takes wing,
       Leaving behind him as he flies
An unperceivàd dimness in thine eyes.
       His minutes, whilst they’re told,
          Do make us old;
     And every sand of his fleet glass,
     Increasing age as it doth pass,
     Insensibly sows wrinkles there
     Where flowers and roses do appear.
     Whilst we do speak, our fire
     Doth into ice expire,
           Flames turn to frost;
           And ere we can
     Know how our crow turns swan,
     Or how a silver snow
     Springs there where jet did grow,
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

       Since then the Night hath hurl’d
            Darkness, Love’s shade,
       Over its enemy the Day, and made
                  The world
       Just such a blind and shapeless thing
As ’twas before light did from darkness spring,
       Let us employ its treasure
       And make shade pleasure:
Let’s number out the hours by blisses,
And count the minutes by our kisses;
     Let the heavens new motions feel
     And by our embraces wheel;
     And whilst we try the way
     By which Love doth convey
           Soul unto soul,
           And mingling so
     Makes them such raptures know
     As makes them entranced lie
           In mutual ecstasy,
Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!