To a Mistress Dying

           Lover:   Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh

As eastern summers are,

Must now, forsaking time and flesh,

Add light to some small star.

   Philosopher:   Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd,

Their light by hers relief might find;

But Death will lead her to a shade

Where Love is cold and Beauty blind.

           Lover:   Lovers, whose priests all poets are,

Think every mistress, when she dies,

Is changed at least into a star:

And who dares doubt the poets wise?

   Philosopher:   But ask not bodies doom'd to die

To what abode they go;

Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy,

It is not safe to know.

— Sir William Davenant
1606-1668