Elegy IX: The Autumnal

17And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,

18He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.

19Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where,

20In progress, yet his standing house is here.

21Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;

22Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight

23In all her words, unto all hearers fit,

24You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.

25This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood;

26There he, as wine in June enrages blood,

27Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste

28And appetite to other things is past.

29Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,

30Was loved for age, none being so large as she,

31Or else because, being young, nature did bless

32Her youth with age's glory, Barrenness.

33If we love things long sought, Age is a thing

34Which we are fifty years in compassing;

35If transitory things, which soon decay,

36Age must be loveliest at the latest day.

37But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack;

38Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;

39Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;

40Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;

41Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,

42To vex their souls at Resurrection;

43Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,

44For these, not ancient, but antique be.

45I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay

46With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.

47Since such love's natural lation is, may still

48My love descend, and journey down the hill,

49Not panting after growing beauties so,

50I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.