LXXXIV. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

Who is it that says most? which can say more, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;,

Than this rich praise—that you alone are you? But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,

In whose confine immured is the store, And my sick muse doth give another place.

Which should example where your equal grew. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;

That to his subject lends not some small glory ; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,

But he that writes of you, if he can tel He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.

That you are you, so dignifies his story, He lends thee virtue, and he stole ihat word Let him but copy what in you is writ, From thy behaviour beauty doth he give,

Not making worse what nature made so clear, And found it in thy cheek; he can afford

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Making his style admired every where. Then thank him not for that which he doth say,

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Since what he owes thee thoa thyself dost pay. Being fond on praise, which makes your praises LXXX.

LXXXV. 0, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

My tongue-ty'd muse in manners holds her still, And in the praise thereof spends all his might,

While comments of your praise, richly compild, To make me longue-ly'd, speaking of your fame? Reserve their character with golden quill, But since your worth, (wide, as the ocean is,)

And precious phrase by all the muses fil'd. The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,

I think good thoughts whilst others write good words, My saucy bark, inferior far to his,

And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry Amen On your broad main duth wilfully appear.

To every hymn that able spirit affords, Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,

In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride ;

Hearing you prais'd, I say, 'tis so, 'tis true, Or, being wreck'd, I am a wortbless boat,

And to the most of praise add something more ; He of tall building, and of goodly pride :

But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,

Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. The worst was this ;-my love was my decay..

Then others for the breath of words respect,

Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;

Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inherse, Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die
The earth can yield me but a common grave,

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ?

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
When you entonbed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence ;
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;

As victors, of my silence cannot boast
You still shall live, (such virtue hath my pen,) (men. But when your countenance fill'd up his line,

I was not sick of any fear from thence : Where breath most breathes-even in the mouths of Then lack'd I matter ; that enfeebled mine. LXXXII.

LXXXVII. I grant thou wert not married to my muse, Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And therefore may'st without attaint o'er-look And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : The dedicated words which writers use

The charter of thy worth gives the releasing ; of their fair subject blessing every book.

My bonds in thee are all determinate. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ; And for that riches where is my deserving ? And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And so my patent back again is swerving. And do so, love ; yet when they have devis' Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd

So thy great gist, upon misprision growing, In true plain words, by thy true telling friend ; Comes home again, on belier judgment making. And their gross painting might be better usd Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd. In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter. LXXXIII.

I never saw that you did painting need,

When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And therefore to your fair no painting set; And place my merit in ihe eye of Scorn,
I found, or thought I found you did excoed Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
The barren tender of a pvet's debt :

And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
And therefore have I slept in your report, With' mine own weakness being best acquainted,
That you yourself, being extant, well 'might show Upon thy part I can set down a story
How far a modern quill doth come too short, of faults conceald, wherein I am aitainted;

of worth, what worth in you doth grow. That thou, in Josing me, shalt win much glory; This silence for my sin you did impute,

And I by this will be a gainer too;
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
For I impair not beauty, being mute,

The injuries that io myself I do,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb. Doing thee vantage, double-vantage mo.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
Than both your poets can in praise devise. That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

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Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, They that have power to hurt and will do nono,
And I will comment upon that offence :

That do not do the thing they most do show,
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Against thy reasons making no defence.

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
Thou cansi not, love, disgrace me half so ill,

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
To set a form upon desired change,

And husband nature's riches from expense ;
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,

They are the lords and owners of their faces,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ; Others but stewards of their excellence.
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell;

Though to itself it only live and die;
Lest 1 (too much profane) should do it wrong, But if that flower with base infection meet,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds :
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now : How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shamo,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, Dath spot the beauty of thy budding name?
And do not drop in, for an after-loss :

0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
Ah! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow, That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd wo;

Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ;
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.

Naminy thy name blesses an ill report.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, 0, what a mansion have those vices got,
When other petty yriefs have done their spite, Which for their habitation chose out thee?
But in the onset come; so shall I taste

Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
At first the very worst of fortune's might; And all things turn io fair that eyes can see!
And other strains of wo, which now seem wo, Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ;
Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force; Some say, thy grace is youth, and gentle sport;
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill; Both grace and faults are lor'd of more and less :
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; / Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, As on the finger of a throned queen
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ;

The basest jewel will be well esteem'd;
But these particulars are not my measure,

So are those errors that in thee are seen,
All these I better in one general best.

To truths translated, and for true things deem'd.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, If like a lamb he could his looks translate !
of more delight than hawks or horses be; How many gazers might'st thou lead away,
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. If thou would'st use the strength of all thy state !
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
All this away, and me most wretched make. As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

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But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

How like a winter hath my absence been
For term of life thou art assured mine;

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
And life no longer than thy love will stay,

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen ?
For it depends upon that love of thine.

What old December's bareness every

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

And yet this time remov'd! was summer's time;
When in the least of them my life hath end.

The ieeming autumn, big with rich increase,
I sce a better state to me belongs

Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Than that which on thy humour doth depend : Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease :
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ;
O, what a happy title do I find,

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
But what's so blessed-fair thai fears no blot?

Or, if they sing, 'lis with so dull a cheer,
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not:

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near.


So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

From you have I been absent in the spring,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face

When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new; Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. of different flowers in odour and in hue,
In many's looks the false heart's history

Could make me any summer's story tell,
Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange ; Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew,
But heaven in thy creation did decree,

Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Nor praise the deep vermilion in the roso;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. Drawn after you; you pattern of all those.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

As with your shadow I with these did play:

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To one,


CIV. The forward violet thus did I chide ;- (smells, To me, fair friend, you never can be old, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet tal For as you were, when first your eye I eye'd, If not from my love's breath! The purple pride Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; In my love's veins thou hast to grossly dy'd. Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, The lily I condemned for thy hand,

In process of the seasons have I seen; And buds of marjoram had stolen ihy bair :

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, The roses fearfully on thorns did sland,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. One blushing shame, another white despair ;

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial band,
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth Haih motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd :
A vengeful canker eat him up to deaih.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, More Howers I noted, yet I none could see, Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy mnight?

Nor my

beloved as an idol show, Spend'st thou thy sury on some worthless song,

Since áll alike my songs and praises be,

of Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light ?

one, still such, and ever so. Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,

Therefore my verse 10 constancy confin'd, And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,

Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, If Time have any wrinkle graven there ;

Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ; If any, be a satire to decay,

And in this change is my invention spent, And make Time's spoils despised every where.

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affordø. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;

Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife. Which thrce, till now, never kept seat in one. CI.

CVI. O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends,

When in the chronicle of wasted time For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd ?

I see descriptions of the fairest wighis, Both truth and beauty on my love depends ; And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, So dost thou, too, and therein dignify'd.

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not haply say, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;

of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth no lay;

I see their antique pen would have expressid But best is best, if never intermix'd ?

Even such a beauty as you master now. Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? So all their praises are but prophecies Excuse not silence so ; for it lies in thee

of this our time, all you prefiguring ; To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And for they look'd but with divining eyes, And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.

They had not skill enough your worih to sing : Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how For we which now behold these present days, To make him seem long henco as he shows now. Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CII.

CVII. My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seem- Not mino own fears, nor the prophetic soul I love not less, though less the show appear: [ing; or the wide world dreaming on things to come, That love is merchandis'd, whose rich esteeming Can yet the lease of my true love control, The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; And the sad augurs mock their own presage; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,

Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days; And

peace proclaims olives of endless age. Not that the summer is less pleasant now

Now with the drops of this most balmy time Than when her mournfnl hymns did hush the night, My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, But that wild music burdens every bough,

Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, And thou in this shalt find thy monument, Because I would not dull you with my song. When tyrants crests and tombs of brass are spent. CIII.

CVIII. Alack! what poverty my muse brings forth, What's in the brain that ink may character, That having such a scope to show her pride, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit? The argument, all bare, is of more worth, What's new to speak, what now to register, Than when it hath my added praise beside. That may express my love, or thy dear merit? O, blame me not, if I no more can write !

Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine, Look in your glass, and there appears a lace, I must each day say o'er ihe very same; That over-goes my blunt invention quite,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. Were it nol sinful, then, striving to mend,

So that eternal love in love's free case To mar the subject that before was well ?

Weighs not the dust and injury of age, For to no other pass my verses tend,

Nor gives necessary wrinkles place, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; But makes antiquity for aye his page ; And more, much more, than in my verso can sit, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. Where time and outward form would show it dead. up :



CXIV. O, never say that I was false of heart,

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify. Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery, As easy might I from myself depart,

Or wheiher shall I say, mine eye saith true,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: And that your love taught it this alchymy,
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd, To make, of monsters and things indigest,
Like him that travels, I return again ;

Such cherubims as your sweet self resemble;
Just to the time, not with the time exchang’d, - Creating every bad a perfect best,
So that myself bring water for my stain.

As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd 0, 'us the first; 'ris flattery in my seeing,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

And my great mind most hingly drinks it That it could so preposterously be staind,

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

And to his palate doth prepare the cup: For nothing this wide universe I call,

If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. сх. .

CXV. Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there,

Those lines that I before have writ do lie, And made myself a motley to the view;

E'en those that said I could not love you dearer ; Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most Yet then my judgment knew no reason why Made old offences of affections new: (dear, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth

But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents Askance and strangely; but, by all above,

Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings: These blenches gave my heart another youth,

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.

Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; Now all is done, save whal shall have no end : Alas! why, fearing of time's tyranny, Mine appetite I never more will grind

Might I not then say, now I love you besl, Ou newer proof, to try an older friend,

When I was certain o'er incertainty, A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.

Crowning the present, doubtin: of ihe rest; Then give mo welcome, next my heaven the best, Love is a babe : then might I not say so, Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. To give full growth to that which still doth grow? CXI.

CXVI. O, for my sake, do you with fortune chide,

Let me not to the marriage of true minds The guíly goddess of my harmful deeds,

Admit impediments. Love is not love
That did not better for my life provide

Which aliers when it alteration finds,
Than public means, which public manners breeds. Or bends with the remover to remove :
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand; O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:

It is the star to every wandering bark, (taken. Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd ;

Whose worth's unknown, although his height bo Whilst like a willing patient, I will drink

Love's not Time's foul, though rosy lips and cheeks Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection; Within his bending sickle's compass come; No bitterness that I will bitter think,

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, Nor double penance to correct correction.

But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom.
Pity me, then, dear friend, and I assure ye, If this be error, and upon me provid,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill

Accuse me thus ; that I have scanted all Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; Wherein I should your great deserts repay ; For what care I who calls me well or ill,

Forgot upon your dearest love to call, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow ? Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; You are my all-the-world, and I must strive That I have frequent been with unknown minds, To know my shames and praises from your tongue; And given to time your own dear purchas'd right; None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds That my steeld sense or changes, right or wrong. Which should transport me farthest from your sight. In so profound abysm I throw all care

Book both my wilfulness and errors down, of others' voices, that my adder's sense

And on just proof, surmise accumulate, To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Bring me within the level of your frown, Mark how with my neglect I'do dispense:

But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate: You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove That all the world besides meihinks they are dead. The constancy and virtue of your love. CXIII.

CXVIII. Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

Like as, to make our appetites more keon, And that which governs me to go about,

With eager compounds we our palate urge; Doth part his function, and is partly blind,

As, to prevent our maladies unseen, Seems seeing, but efféctually is out :

We sicken to shun sickness, when we purge; For it no form delivers to the heart

E'en so, being full of your ne'er cloying sweetness, Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch ; To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch; To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing, For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,

Thus policy in love, to anticipate The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature, The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, The mountain or the sea, the day or night, And brought to medicine a healthful state, The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature: Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured, Incapable of more, replete with you,

But thence I learn, and find the lesson truo, My most true m'ní thus maketh mine untrue. Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.


CXXIV. What potions have I drunk of Syren tears,

If my dear love were but the child of state, Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, It might for fortune's bastard be unfather'd, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate, Still losing when I saw myself to win!

Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers What wretched errors haih my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! No, it was builded far from accident;
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted, lt suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled discontent,
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true

Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls :
That better is by evil still made better;

It fears not policy, that heretic, And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,

Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. But all alone stands hugely politic, So I return rebuk'd to my content,

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with

showers. And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

To this I witness call the fools of time,

Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime

CXXV. That you were once unkind, befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Were it aught to me I bore the canopy, Needs must I under my transgression bow, With my extern the outward honouring, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. Or laid great bases for eternity, For if you were by my unkindness shaken, Which prove more short than waste or ruining? As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time; Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent; To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. For compound sweet forgoing simple savour, O that our night of wo might have remember'd Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ? My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, No ;-let me be obsequious in thy heart, And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd And take thou my oblation, poor but free, The humble saive which wounded bosoms fits! Which is not mix'd with seconds' knows no art, But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; But mutual render, only me for thee. Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,

When most impeachd, stands least in thy control. CXXI.

CXXVI. 'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemid,

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power. When not to be receives reproach of being, Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.

Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st; For why should others' false adulterate eyes

If nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, Give salutation to my sportive blood ?

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good ? May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill No,-I am that I am; and they that level

Yet fear her, O, thou minion of her pleasure ; At my abuses, reckon up their own:

She may detain, but not still keep her treasure : I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ; Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; And her quietus is to render thee. Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad, and in their badness reign.


In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it boro not beauty's name;
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

But now is black beauty's successive heir, Full characier'd with lasting memory,

And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame: Which shall above that idle rank remain,

For since each hand hath put on nature's power Beyond all date, even to eternity:

Fairing the foul with art's false-borrow'd face, Or at the least so long as brain and heart

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy hour, Have faculty by nature to subsist :

But is profar’d, if not lives in disgrace. Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.

Her eyes so suited; and they mourners seem That poor retention could not so much hold,

At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score ;

Slandering creation with a false esteem: Therefore to give them from me was I bold, Yet so they mourn, becoming of their wo, To trust those tables that receive thee more : That every tongue says, beauty should look so To keep an adjunct to remember thee,

Were to import forgetfulness in me.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change : The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Thy pyramids built up with newer might

Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ;

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, They are but dressings of a former sighi.

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! What thou dost foist upon us that is old ;

To be so tickled, they would change their state And rather make them born to our desire, And situation with those dancing chips, Than think that we before have heard them told. O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Noi wondering at the present nor the past ; Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
For thy records and what we see do lic,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
Made more or less by thy continual haste :
This I do vow, and this shall ever be,

1 Which is not mix'd with seconds.'--Seconds is a I will be truo, despite thy scythe and thee.

provincial term for the second kind of four, which is collected aller the smaller bran is sined.--Steevens.

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