FOR CAROLINE

Daft muse, the lady waits upon her song!
How shall I then, excuse thy tardiness?
What reason might I give, to wait so long
But as to tell of love's sweet lovliness?
Her eyes are like the waters of the sea,
Or like fine crystals, that do catch the sun;
Her hair, like gold, adorns her wonderf'lly,
And makes one think on fables where 'tis spun.
Her lips, upturn'd in joy, are joyous things;
Yet even so, converted down, their gloom
Such sadly sympathetic pleasure brings
As to dispel in me all hints of doom.
   Shall this be thy apology, poor muse:
   Hast thou deferr'd thee, to mine own heart's use?