74
Tixall Poetry.
To
His Mistress,
upon Returne from Travells.
Oh God! that I could thinke it true
That you could possibly be you.
Weire you not young, weire you not fayre,
Not red thy lypp, not browne thy haire?
What single bloome of beauty past?
What bud blowne when I saw thee last?
And now (unlesse thy ages prime
As endlesse weire as that of tyme,
Or fates had twin'd thy thred, t' apeare
Round as ther serpent, or ther yeare,
And that thy constant beauty's flame
Could, as the sun, still rise the same,)
That you could possibly be you.
Weire you not young, weire you not fayre,
Not red thy lypp, not browne thy haire?
What single bloome of beauty past?
What bud blowne when I saw thee last?
And now (unlesse thy ages prime
As endlesse weire as that of tyme,
Or fates had twin'd thy thred, t' apeare
Round as ther serpent, or ther yeare,
And that thy constant beauty's flame
Could, as the sun, still rise the same,)
