Nature that Washed Her Hands in Milk
Nature, that washed her hands in milk,And had forgot to dry them,Instead of earth took snow and silk,At love's request to try them,If she a mistress could composeTo please love's fancy out of those.
Her eyes he would should be of light,A violet breath, and lips of jelly;Her hair not black, nor overbright,And of the softest down her belly;As for her inside he'd have itOnly of wantonness and wit.
At love's entreaty such a oneNature made, but with her beautyShe hath framed a heart of stone;So as Love, by ill destiny,Must die for her whom nature gave himBecause her darling would not save him.
But time, which nature doth despiseAnd rudely gives her love the lie,Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise,His hands do neither wash nor dry;But being made of steel and rust,Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.
The light, the belly, lips, and breath,He dims, discolors, and destroys;With those he feeds but fills not death,Which sometimes were the food of joys.Yea, time doth dull each lively wit,And dries all wantonness with it.
Oh, cruel time, which takes in trustOur youth, or joys, and all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent graveWhen we have wandered all our waysShuts up the story of our days.
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