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my gray haires equall bee;
    Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let
    Mee travell, sojourne, snatch, plot, have, forget,
    Resume my last yeares relict: thinke that yet
                             We’had never met.
    Let mee thinke any rivalls letter mine,
                             And at next nine
    Keepe midnights promise; mistake by the way
    The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;
    Onely let mee love none, no, not the sport
    From country grasse, to comfitures of Court,
    Or cities quelque choses, let report
                             My minde transport.
    This bargaine’s good; if when I’am old, I bee
                             Inflam’d by thee,
    If thine owne honour, or my shame, or paine,
    Thou covet most, at that age thou shalt gaine.
    Doe thy will then, then subject and degree,
    And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee,
    Spare mee till then, I’ll beare it, though she bee
                             One that loves mee.
LOVES DEITIE
    I long to talke with some old lovers ghost,
        Who dyed before the god of Love was borne:
    I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov’d most,
        Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne.
    But since this god produc’d a destinie,
    And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be;
        I must love her, that loves not mee.
    Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much:
        Nor he, in his young godhead practis’d it.
    But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
        His office was indulgently to fit
    Actives to passives. Correspondencie
    Only his subject was; It cannot bee
        Love, till I love her, that loves mee.
    But every moderne god will now extend
        His vast prerogative, as far as Jove.
    To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
        All is the purlewe of the God of Love.
    Oh were wee wak’ned by this Tyrannie
    To ungod this child againe, it could not bee
        I should love her, who loves not mee.
    Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I,
        As though I felt the worst that love could doe?
    Love may make me leave loving, or might trie
        A deeper plague, to make her love mee too,
    Which since she loves before, I’am loth to see;
    Falshood is worse than hate; and that must bee
        If shee whom I love, should love mee.
THE MESSAGE
    Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,
    Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,
    Yet since there they have learn’d such ill,
                   Such forc’d fashions,
                   And false passions,
                             That they be
                             Made by thee
    Fit for no good sight, keep them still.
    Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
    Which no unworthy thought could staine,
    Which if it be taught by thine
                   To make jestings
                   Of protestings,
                             And breake both
                             Word and oath,
    Keepe it, for then ’tis none of mine.
    Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
    That I may know, and see thy lyes,
    And may laugh and joy, when thou
                   Art in anguish
                   And dost languish
                             For some one
                             That will none,
    Or prove as false as thou art now.
A NOCTURNALL UPON
S. LUCIES
DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY
    Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
    Lucies
, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
        The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
        Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
                   The worlds whole sap is sunke:
    The generall balme th’hydroptique earth hath drunk,
    Whither, as to the beds-feet life is shrunke,
    Dead and enterr’d, yet all