<em>Lover</em>.  Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh
  As eastern summers are,
Must now, forsaking time and flesh,
  Add light to some small star.
 
<em>Philosopher</em>.  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.
 
<em>Lover</em>.  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?
 
<em>Philosopher</em>.  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.