Thomas Randolph Poems

We the fairies blithe and antic,
Of Dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us,
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When age hath made me what I am not now,
And every wrinkle tells me where the plow
Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow
Through every vein, and all my head wear snow;
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I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
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1 When bashfull daylight now was gone
2 And night, that hides a blush, came on.
3 Sixe Pretty Nymphes to wash away
4 The sweatinge of a Summers daye
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