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On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foyzen of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blefied shape we know :
In all external grace you have some part,
like none, none you,
for constant heart,
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous feem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give !
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live,
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roles,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds disclofes .
But for their virtue's only in their show,
They live unmov'd, and unreípected fade,
Die to themselves : sweet roses do not so,
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made..
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.
Being your flave, what should I do, but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire,
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require :
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you ;;
Nor think the bitterness of absence four,
you. have bid. your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose ;
But like a fad flave stay, and think of nought,
Save where you are : how happy you make those !
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
(Tho' you do any thing) he thinks no ill.
That god forbid, that made me first your lave, I fhould in thought controul your times of pleasure; your
hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure.
let me suffer (being at your beck)
Th'imprison's absence of your liberty ;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each checks
Without accusing you of injury !
Be where you lift, your charter is so strong,
That you yoarself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am 10. waits tho' waiting fo be helt ;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguild ?:
Which labouring for invention, bear amils-
The second. burden of a former child ?
O! that record could with a backward look,
Ev’n of five hundred courses of the sun ;
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mine at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this.composed wonder of your frame ; :
Whether we're mended, or where better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O ! sure I am, the wits of former days,
To subjects worse, have given admiring praise.
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose may never die ;
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory.
But thou .contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with felf-fubftantial fuels;
Making a famine where abundance lies :
Thyself thy. foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornamenti:
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarıling :
Pity the world, or else this glutton be
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee..
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's porud livery, fo gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say within thine own deep. sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating Ibame and thriftlefs praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer, This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse;
Proving, bis beauty by succession thine ? ..
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm, when thou feel't it cold.-
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair, if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair, whose un-ear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?
Or who is he fo fond, will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity ?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime :
So thou thro' windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember not to be ;
Die fingle, and thine image dies with thee.
O that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours, than you yourself here live :
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty, which you hold in lease,
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
When your sweet iffue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day,
And barren rage of death's 'eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts : dear my love, you know
You had a father, let your son fay fo.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy ;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or say, with princes if it shall go well,
By ought predict that I in heaven find :
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars; in them I read fuch art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou would'st convert :
Or elfe of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
When I consider, every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment ;
That this buge stage presenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment :
When I perceive, that men as plants increase,
Chear'd and check'd ev'n by the self-fame sky :
Vaunt in their youthful fap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory :
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my fight,
Where wafteful time debateth with decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with time, for love of you,
As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way,
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, time?