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.
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