1627]

Of his Ladies not Comming _to London_

That ten-yeares-trauell'd _Greeke_ return'd from Sea
Ne'r ioyd so much to see his _Ithaca_,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide _Greece_ could to that wanderer be.
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts haue chained vp the deepe,
The Sunne's to vs a niggard of his Rayes,
But reuelleth with our _Antipodes_;
And seldome to vs when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed. 10
In those bleake mountaines can you liue where snowe
Maketh the vales vp to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may haue the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time, hath _Phebe_ from her wayne,
With _Phoebus_ fires fill'd vp her hornes againe; 20
Shee through her Orbe, still on her course doth range,
But you keep yours still, nor for me will change.
The Sunne that mounted the sterne Lions back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly diue the Brack,
But still you keepe your station, which confines
You, nor regard him trauelling the signes.
Those ships which when you went, put out to Sea,
Both to our _Groenland_, and _Virginia_,
Are now return'd, and Custom'd haue their fraught,
Yet you arriue not, nor returne me ought. 30
The Thames was not so frozen yet this yeare,
As is my bosome, with the chilly feare
Of your not comming, which on me doth light,
As on those Climes, where halfe the world is night.
Of euery tedious houre you haue made two,
All this long Winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are months, and when the houre is past,
A yeare is ended since the Clocke strooke last,
When your Remembrance puts me on the Racke,
And I should Swound to see an _Almanacke_, 40
To reade what silent weekes away are slid,
Since the dire Fates you from my sight haue hid.
I hate him who the first Deuisor was
Of this same foolish thing, the Hower-glasse,
And of the Watch, whose dribbling sands and Wheele,
With their slow stroakes, make mee too much to feel