When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;
And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
Open thy gates
To him who weeping waits,
And might come in,
But that held back by sin.
Virgins promised when I died,
That they would each primrose-tide
Duly, morn and evening, come,
And with flowers dress my tomb.
I dare not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile;
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.
Be my mistress short or tall
And distorted therewithall
Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration:
Go, happy Rose, and interwove
With other flowers, bind my Love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
From the dull confines of the drooping west,
To see the day spring from the pregnant east,
Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly
To thee, blest place of my nativity!
Make haste away, and let one be
A friendly patron unto thee;
Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie
Torn for the use of pastery;