Tixall Poetry/A Broken Houre-Glasse
A Broken Houre-Glasse.
Madam, come behold your face;Heer's your surest looking-glasse.Though your lyfes goold-spinning thredPromis an immortal weed;Though your flattering servants doeStyle you Alpe, and Ætna too,See the ground where on you stand:All's a wrinkeling hill of sand.Though your idle poets seekeConstellations in your cheeke,And miscall your eyes aboveDouble 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.