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And each (tho' enemies to other's reign)
Do in confent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain,
How far I toil, ftill farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
And doft him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the fwart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling ftars tweer out, thou gild'ft th' even.
But day doth daily draw my forrows longer,

And night doth nightly make grief's length seem
[ftronger..
When in difgrace with fortune and mens eyes
I all alone beweep my out-caft ftate,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootlefs cries,
And lock upon myself and curfe my fate:
Withing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends poffeft;
Defiring this man's art, and that man's fcope,
With what I most enjoy contented leaft.
Yet in thefe thoughts, myself almost despifing,
Haply I think on thee, and then my ftate,
Like to the lark, at break of day arifing
From fullen earth, to fing at heaven's gate.

For thy fweet love rememb'red, fuch wealth brings,. That then I fcorn to change my state with kings.

Cruel Deceit.

Scarce had the fun dry'd up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for fhade;
When Cytherea (all in love forlorn).
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an offer growing by a brook;

A brook, where Adon us'd to cool his fpleen.

Hot was the day, the hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often here had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And ftood ftark naked on the brook's green
The fun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not fo wiftly, as this queen on him:

brim:

He fpying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
O! Jove! (quoth fhe) why was not I a flood?

The Unconftant Lover.

Fair is my love, but not fo fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trufty;
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rufty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her;
None fairer, nor none falfer to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath the joined,» Between each kifs her oaths of true love fwearing? How many tales to please me hath the coined, Dreading my love, the lofs thereof ftill fearing? Yet in the midft of all her pure protestings,

Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jeftings.

She burnt with love, as ftraw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as foon as ftraw out burning;
She fram'd the love, and yet the foil'd the framing.
She bad love laft, and yet fhe fell a turning.

Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad at the best, tho' excellent in neither,

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The Benefit of Friendship.

When to the feffions of fweet filent thought,
I fummon up remembrance of things past,
I figh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's wafte.
Then can I drown an eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long fince cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expence
of many a vanish'd fight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o❜ër
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All loffes are reftor'd, and forrows end.

Thy bofom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have fuppofed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obfequious tear

Hath dear religious love ftol'n from mine eye,
As intereft of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!'
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone;
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) haft all the all of me.

If thou furvive my well-contented day,

When that churl death my bones with duft shall

cover;.

And fhalt by fortune once more re-survey
Thefe poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And tho' they be out-ftript by every pen,
Referve them for my love, not for their rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier men,

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Oh then vouchfafe me but this loving thought!
Had my friend's mufe grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this, his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:

But fince he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their ftile I'll read, his for his love...

Friendly Concord...

If mufick and fweet poetry agree,,

As they must needs (the fifter and the brother)
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,,
Because thou lov't the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whofe heavenly touch
Upon the lute, doth ravifh human fense:
Spencer to me, whofe deep conceit is fuch,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov't to hear the fweet melodious found,
That Phoebus' lute (the queen of mufick) makes
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to finging he betakes.

One God is God of both (as poets fain)
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain

Inhumanity.

Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love,,, Raler for forrow than her milk-white dove...

For Adon's fake, a youngfter proud and wild,
Her ftand she takes upon a fteep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds,
She, filly queen, with more than love's good-will,
For bad the boy he should not pafs thofe grounds:
Once (quoth fhe) did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes, deep wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh a fpectacle of ruth;

See in my thigh (quoth fhe) here was the fore:
She fhewed hers, he faw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

A Congratulation.

How can my mufe want fubject to invent,
Whilft thou doft breathe, that pour'ft into my verse
Thine own fweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

Oh! give thyfelf the thanks, if ought in me,
Worthy perufal, ftand against thy fight;
For who's fo dull, that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself doft give invention light?
Be thou the tenth mufe, ten times more in worth,
Than thofe old Nine which rhimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to out-live long date.

If my flight mufe do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine fhall be the praise.

Ah! how thy worth with manners may I fing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praife to mine own felf bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,

And our dear love lefe name of single one;

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