Flight For Heaven

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like [a]1 silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers
Melt, melt my [pains]2
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
[For]3 Heaven.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy.
If it be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer: There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) [how]1 sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are;
No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherds' star
Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close
Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live or die.

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.

Here a [pretty]1 baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent and not stir
Th'easy earth that covers her.

Thou art to all lost love the best,
   The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distress'd,
   And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
   Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow-garlands 'bout the head
   Bedew'd with tears are worn.
	
When with neglect, the lover's bane,
   Poor maids rewarded be,
For their love lost, their only gain
   Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
   When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and love-sick maid
   Come to weep out the night.

What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
	Of saints?

In endless mirth
She thinks not on
What 's said or done
	In Earth.

She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
	She hears:

Nor does she mind
Or think on 't now
That ever thou
	Wast kind;

But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
	Thy love.

Forbear therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
	No more.

— Tacet —

Bid me to live, and I will live
  Thy Protestant to be:
Or bid me love, and I will give
  A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
  A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
 That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
  To honour thy Decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
  And 't shall doe so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
  While I have eyes to see:
And having none, yet I will keep
  A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
  Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
  E'en Death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me:
And has command of ev'ry part,
To live and die for thee.