Tixall Poetry.
59
A Broken Houre-Glasse.
Madam, come behold your face;
Heer's your surest looking-glasse.
Though your lyfes goold-spinning thred
Promis an immortal weed;
Though your flattering servants doe
Style you Alpe, and Ætna too,
See the ground where on you stand:
All's a wrinkeling hill of sand.
Though your idle poets seeke
Constellations in your cheeke,
And miscall your eyes above
Double christallins of love,
See thos orbes, and how they passe:
All's a tender brickie glasse.
See the idol of your lover—
Earth put in a christall cover!
Which though yet it shine in you,
First was made of ashes too.
And when tyme recalls, it must,
Lyke this glasse, come all to dust.
Heer's your surest looking-glasse.
Though your lyfes goold-spinning thred
Promis an immortal weed;
Though your flattering servants doe
Style you Alpe, and Ætna too,
See the ground where on you stand:
All's a wrinkeling hill of sand.
Though your idle poets seeke
Constellations in your cheeke,
And miscall your eyes above
Double christallins of love,
See thos orbes, and how they passe:
All's a tender brickie glasse.
See the idol of your lover—
Earth put in a christall cover!
Which though yet it shine in you,
First was made of ashes too.
And when tyme recalls, it must,
Lyke this glasse, come all to dust.
