It was scarce Day, when all alone I saw Hyanthe and her Throne. In fresh, green Damascs she was drest, And o're a Saphir Globe did rest. This slipperie Sphaere when I did see, Fortune, I thought it had been Thee. But when I saw shee did present A Majestie more Permanent,

I thought my Cares not lost, if I Should finish my Discoverie.

Sleepie shee look'd to my first sight, As if shee had Watch'd all the Night, And underneath, her hand was spread, The White Supporter of her head. But at my Second, studied View, I could perceive a silent Dew Steale down her Cheeks; lest it should Stayne Those Cheeks where onely Smiles should reigne. The Tears stream'd down for haste, and all In Chaines of liquid Pearle did fall. Faire Sorrows; and more dear than Joyes, Which are but emptie Ayres and Noyse, Your Drops present a richer Prize, For they are Something like her Eyes.

Pretty, white Foole! why hast thou been Sulli'd with Teares, and not with Sin? 'Tis true: thy Teares, like Polish'd Skies, Are the Bright Rosials of thy Eyes, But such strange Fates doe them attend, As if thy Woes would never end. From Drops to Sighes they turn, and then Those sighes return to Drops agen: But whiles the Silver Torrent seeks Those Flowr's that watch it in thy Cheeks, The White and Red Hyanthe weares, Turn to Rose-water all her Teares.

Have you beheld a Flame, that springs From Incense, when sweet, curled, Rings Of smoke attend her last, weak Fires, And Shee all in Perfumes expires? So dy'd Hyanthe. Here (said shee) Let not this Vial part from Thee. It holds my Heart, though now 'tis Spill'd, And into Waters all distill'd. 'Tis constant still: Trust not false Smiles, Who smiles, and weeps not shee beguiles. Nay trust not Teares: false are the few, Those Teares are Many, that are True. Trust Mee, and take the better Choyce, Who hath my Teares, can want no Joyes.