Ask me no more where Jove bestows, / When June is past, the fading rose; / For in your beauty's orient deep / These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. |
Give me more love or more disdain; / The torrid or the frozen zone. |
Good to the poor, to kindred dear, / To servants kind, to friendship clear, / To nothing but herself severe. |
He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from starlike eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away |
Here lies a King that ruled, as he thought fit, / The universal monarchy of wit. |
Then fly betimes, for only they / Conquer Love that run away. |