Tixall Poetry/A Broken Houre-Glasse

by unknown author

A Broken Houre-Glasse.

 

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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.