Three Johnson Ballads

The faiery beame upon you,
The starres to glister on you,
    A Moone of light,
    In the Noone of night,
Till the Fire-Drake hath o're-gone you.

The Wheele of Fortune guide you,
The Boy with the Bow beside you,
    Runne aye in the way
    Till the Bird of day,
And the luckyer lot betide you.

Do but consider this small dust
Here running in the glass,
    By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this
    The body was
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
    To have't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,
Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And colored coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigor, youth, and spright,
That are but looked on by his light.