A Valediction: of Weeping

Let me powre forth

My teares before thy face, whil'st I stay here,

For thy face coines them, and thy stampe they beare,

And by this Mintage they are something worth,

For thus they bee　

Pregnant of thee;

Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more,

When a teare falls, that thou falst which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.

On a round ball　

A workeman that hath copies by, can lay

An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,

And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,

So doth each teare,

Which thee doth weare,　

A globe, yea world by that impression grow,

Till thy teares mixt with mine doe overflow

This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.

O more then Moone,

Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare,　

Weepe me not dead, in thine armes, but forbeare

To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone;

Let not the winde

Example finde,

To doe me more harme, then it purposeth;　

Since thou and I sigh one anothers breath,

Who e'r sighes most, is cruellest, and hasts the others death.