DAVENANT, William

To A Mistress Dying

Lover

Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh

As eastern summers are,

Must now, forsaking time and flesh,

Add light to some small star.

Philosopher

Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd,

Their light by hers relief might find;

But Death will lead her to a shade

Where Love is cold and Beauty blind.

Lover

Lovers, whose priests all poets are,

Think every mistress, when she dies,

Is changed at least into a star:

And who dares doubt the poets wise?

Philosopher

But ask not bodies doom'd to die

To what abode they go;

Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy,

It is not safe to know.