Song IX

O happy Tithon, if thou know'st thy hap,
And value thy wealth, but as I do my want,
Then need'st thou not (which (ah) I grieue to grant)
Repine at Ioue, lull'd in his lemmans lap:
That golden shower in which he did repose,
One dewie drop it staines,
Which thy Aurora raines
Vpon the rurall plaines,
When from thy bed she passionatly goes.
Then wakened with the musicke of the Mearles,
She not remembers Memnon when she mournes:
That faithfull flame which in her bosome burnes,
From christall conduits throwes those liquide pearles.
Sad from thy sight so soone to be remou'd,
She so her griefe delates,
O fauor'd by the fates,
Aboue the happiest states,
Who art of one so worthie well belou'd.
This is not she that onely shines by night,
No borrow'd beame doth beautifie thy Faire:
But this is she, whose beauties more then rare,
Come crown'd with roses to restore the light,
When Phœbe pitch'd her pitchie pauilion out,
The world with weeping told,
How happie it would hold
It selfe, but to behold
The azure pale that compas'd her about.
Whil'st like a palide half-imprison'd rose,
Whose naked white doth but to blush begin,
A litle scarlet deckes the yuorie skinne,
Which still doth glance transparent as she goes:
The beamie god comes burning with desire;
And when he finds her gone,
With many a grieuous grone,
Enrag'd, remounts anone,
And threatneth all our Hemi-sphære with fire.
Lift vp thine eyes and but behold thy blisse,
The heau'ns raine their riches on thee whil'st thou sleep'st:
Thinke what a matchlesse treasure that thou keep'st,
When thou hast all that any else can wish.
Those Sunnes which daily dazle thy dim eyes,
Might with one beame or so,
Which thou mightst well forgo,
Straight banish all my wo,
And make me all the world for to despise
But Sun-parch'd people loath the precious stones,
And through abundance vilifie the gold;
All dis-esteeme the treasures that they hold,
And thinke not things possest (as they thought) once.
Who surfet oft on such excessiue ioyes,
Can neuer pleasure prize,
But building on the skies,
All present things despise,
And like their treasure lesse, then others toyes.
I enuie not thy blisse, so heau'n hath doom'd;
And yet I cannot but lament mine owne,
Whose hopes hard at the haruest were orethrowne,
And blisse halfe ripe, with frosts of feare consum'd
Faire blossomes, which of fairer fruites did boast,
Were blasted in the flowers,
With eye-exacted showers,
Whose sweet-supposed sowers
Of preconceited pleasures grieu'd me most.
And what a griefe is this (as chance effects)
To see the rarest beauties worst bestow'd?
Ah, why should halting Vulcan be made proud
Of that great beautie which sterne Mars affects?
And why should Tithon thus, whose day growes late,
Enioy the mornings loue?
Which though that I disproue,
Yet will I too approue,
Since that it is her will, and my hard fate.