RICHARD CRASHAW
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, * Welcome, friend!*
Sydncian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old "Winter's head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers,
'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whatever delight
Can make Day's forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish no more.
Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
"Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.
'Tis She, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My Wishes* cloudy character.
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