RICHARD CRASHAW

Blushes, that bin

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess

Virtue their mistress,

And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight

As the coy bride's, when night

First does the longing lover right.

Days, that need borrow

No part of their good-morrow

From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days, that in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they,

Made short by lovers' play,

Yet long by th' absence of the day.

Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes, say, ' Welcome, friend !

Sydneian 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.

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