Nature

Nature, that washed her hands in milk, And had forgotten to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and silk, If she a mistress could compose To please love's fancy out of those. Her eyes he would be of light, Her hair not black, nor overbright, As for her inside he'd have it Only of wantonness and wit. At love's entreaty such a one Nature made, but with her beauty She hath framed a heart of stone; So as Love, by ill destiny, Must die for her whom nature gave him Because her darling would not save him. Our youth, our joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave When we have wandered all our ways Shuts up the story of our days.