137. To His Lovely Mistresses
One night i’th’ year, my dearest Beauties, come,And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb;When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,And there to lick th’ effused sacrifice,Though paleness be the livery that I wear,Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once showThe least grim look, or cast a frown on you;Nor shall the tapers, when I’m there, burn blue.This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,—Cast on my girls a glance, and loving eye;Or fold mine arms, and sigh, because I’ve lostThe world so soon, and in it, you the most:—Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,Though then I smile, and speak no words at all.