THOMAS CAREW

A budding Star, that might have grown Into a Sun when it had blown. This hopeful Beauty did create New life in Love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free ; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

��JASPER MAYNE

296. Tims

'"TIME is the feather'd thing,

• And, whilst I praise

The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,

Takes wing,

Leaving behind him as he flies An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.

• His minutes, whilst they're told,

Do make us old ; And every sand of his fleet glass, Increasing age as it doth pass, Insensibly sows wrinkles there Where flowers and roses do appear. Whilst we do speak, our fire Doth into ice expire,

Flames turn to frost ; And ere we can

Know how our crow turns swan, Or how a silver snow Springs there where jet did grow, Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

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