Cowley: Weeping

WHILE Celia’s tears make sorrow bright,

Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;

The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise:

And thus thro’ mists we see the sun,

Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretell the fervor of the day:

So from one cloud soft showers we view,

And blasting lightnings burst away.

The stars that fall from Celia’s eye

Declare our doom is drawing nigh.

The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,

That Heav’n, the threaten’d world to spare,

Thought fit to drown him in her tears;

Else might th’ ambitious nymph aspire

To set, like him, Heav’n too on fire.