TIS
the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's,
who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The
sun is spent, and now his flasks,
Send
forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The
world's whole sap is sunk;
The
general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither,
as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead
and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared
with me, who am their epitaph.
Study
me then, you who shall lovers be,
At
the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For
I am every dead thing,
In
whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For
his art did express.
A
quintessence even from nothingness,
From
dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He
ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of
absence, darkness, death - things which are not.
All
others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life,
soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I,
by Love's limbec, am the grave,
Of
all, that's nothing. Oft a flood,
Have
we two wept, and so.
Drown'd
the whole world, us two; oft did we grow,
To
be two chaoses, when we did show,
Care
to aught else; and often absences,
Withdrew
our souls, and made us carcasses.
But
I am by her death - which word wrongs her,
Of
the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were
I a man, that I were one,
I
needs must know; I should prefer,
If
I were any beast,
Some
ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And
love; all, all some properties invest.
If
I an ordinary nothing were,
As
shadow, a light, and body must be here.
But
I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You
lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun,
At
this time to the Goat is run,
To
fetch new lust, and give it you.
Enjoy
your summer all,
Since
she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let
me prepare towards her, and let me call
This
hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both
the year's and the day's deep midnight is.
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