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I.
In mine
one monument I lye,
And in my self am buried;
Sure, the quick lightning of her eye
Melted my soul
ith' scabberd dead;
And now like some pale ghost I
walk,
And with another's spirit talk.
II.
Nor can her beams a heat convey,
That may my frozen
bosome warm,
Unless her smiles have pow'r, as they,
That a cross charm can countercharm.
But this is such
a pleasing pain,
I'm loth to be alive again.
ANOTHER.
I did believe I was in heav'n,
When first the heav'n her self was giv'n,
That in my
heart her beams did passe
As some the sun keep in a
glasse,
So that her beauties thorow me
Did hurt my
rival-enemy.
But fate, alas! decreed it so,
That I
was engine to my woe:
For, as a corner'd christal
spot,
My heart diaphanous was not;
But solid
stuffe, where her eye flings
Quick fire upon the
catching strings:
Yet, as at triumphs in the night,
You see the Prince's Arms in light,
So, when I once
was set on flame,
I burnt all ore the letters of her
name.
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