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Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds, With shining falchion in my chamber camo
Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise ? A creeping creature, with a flaming light,
For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds ;

And softly cry'd, Awake, thou Roman dame,
His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds : And entertain my love; else lasting shame
Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. If thou my love's desire do contradict.
Such devils steal effects from lightless hell; For some hard-favour'd groom of thine, quoth he
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
And in that cold, hot-burning fire doth dwell ; I'll murder straight, and then Pll slaughter thee,
These contraries such unity do hold,

And swear I found you where you did fulfil
Only to flatter fools, and make them bold: The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill
So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter, The lechers in their deed: this act will be
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water. My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.
Here, all enrag’d, such passion her assails, With this I did begin to start and cry,
That patience is quite beaten from her breast. And then against my heart he set his sword;
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
Comparing him to that unhappy guest,

I should not live to speak another word:
Whose deed hath made herself, herself detest : So should my shame still rest upon record ;
At last she smilingły with this gives o'er;

And never be forgot in mighty Rome Fool! fool! quoth she, his wounds will not be sore. The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, And time doth weary time with her complaining. And far the weaker with so strong a fear: She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; And both she thinks too long with her remaining: No rightful plea miglit plead for justice there Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining. His scarlet lust came evidence to swear Though wo be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes, And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps. And when the judge is robid, the prisoner dics. Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought, O, teach me how to make mine own excuse ! That she with painted images hath spent ; Or, at the least, this refuge let me find; Being from the feeling of her own grief brought Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, By deep surmise of others detriment;

Immaculate and spotless is my mind;. Losing her woes in shows of discontent.

That was not fore'd; that never was inclin'd It easeth some, though none it ever curd,

To accessary yieldings, but still pure To think their dolour others have endur'd. Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure. But now the mindful messenger, come back, Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, Brings home his lord and other company;. With head declin'd, and voice damm'd up with wo, Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black : With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across, And round about her tear-distained eye

From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky; The grief away, that stops his answer so: These water galls in her dim element

But wretched as he is, he strives in vain ;
Foretel new storms to those already spent. What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again.
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Amazedly in her sad face he stares :

Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste,
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.

Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast;
He hath no power to ask her how she fares; In rage sent out, recallid in rage, being past :
But stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw,
Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.
At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, Which speechless wo of his, poor she attendeth,
And thus begins: What uncouth ill event And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh :
Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand? Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? Another power, no food by'raining slaketh,
Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent ?

My wo too sensible thy passion maketh Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, More feeling-painful : let it then suffice And tell thy grief, that we may give redress. To drown one wo, one pair of weeping eyes. Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, Ere once she can discharge one word of wo: For she that was thy Lucrece,-now attend mo; At length address'd to answer his desire,

Be suddenly revenged on my foe, She modestly prepares to let them know

Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;

From what is past; the help that thou shalt lend me While Collatine and his consorted lords

Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die : With sad attention long to hear her words. For sparing justice feeds iniquity. And now this pale swan in her watery nest But ere I name him, you fair tords, quath she, Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending : (Speaking to those, that came with Collatine, Few words, quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, Where no excuse can give the fault amending : With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine : In me more woes than words are now depending; For 'tis a meritorious fair design, And my laments would be drawn out too long, To chase injustice with revengeful arms: [harms. To tell them ail with one poor tired tongue. Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' Then be this all the task it hath to say:

At this request, with noble disposition Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed

Each present lord began to promise aid, A stranger came, and on that pillow lay

As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Wherr ihou wast wont to rest thy weary head; Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd. And what wrong else may be imagined

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, By foul enforceinent might be done to me,

The protestation stops. O, speak, quoth she, From that, alas ! thy Lucrece is not free.' How may this forced stain be wip'd from me'

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What is the quality of mine offence,

The deep vexation of his inward soul
Being constrain's with dreadful circumstance? Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, Who mad that sorrow should his use control,
My low-declined honour to advance ?

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long
May any terms acquit me from this chance ? Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng
The poison'd fountain clears itself again; Weak words, so thick come, in his poor heart's aid,
And why not I from this compelled stain ? That no man could distinguish what he said.
With this they all at once began to say,

Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
Her body's stain her mind untainted clears ; But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
While with a joyless smile she turns away This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
The face, thai map wliich deep impression bears Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more;
Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears. At last it rains, and busy winds giva o'er :
No, no, quoth she, no dame, hereafter living, Then son and father weep with equal strife,
By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving. Who should weep most för daughter or for wife.
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, The one doth call her his, the other his,
She throws forth Tarquin's name: He, he, she says, Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
But more than he her poor tongue could not speak; The father says, she's mine; 0, mino she is,
Till after many accents and delays,

Replies the husband : Do not take away
Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, My sorrow's interest ; let no mourner say
She utters this: He, he, fair lords, 'tis he, He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me. And only must be wail'd by Collarine.
Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life,
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheath'd : Which she too early and loo late bath spill'd.
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Wo, wo, quoth Collatine, she was my wife,
Of that polluted prison where it breath'd:

I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd,
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath'd My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly The dispersid air, who holding Lucrece' life,
Life's lasting date from cancel'd destiny.

Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife,
Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;

Seeing such emulation in their wo,
Till Lucrece' father that beholds her bleed, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw; Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show,
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew He with the Romans was esteemed so
The murderous kuife, and as it left the place, As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase; For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide But now he throws that shallow habit by,
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Wherein deep policy did him disguise ;
Circles her body in on every side,

And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood,

To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood. Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arlse;
Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, Let my unsounded sell, suppos'd a fool,
And some look'd black and that false Tarquin stain'd. Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school.
About the mourning and congealed face

Why, Collatine, is wo the cure for wo? [deeds?
Of that black blood, a wat’ry rigol goes,

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place : Is it revenge to give thyself a blow,
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ?
Corrupted blood some watery token shows ;

Such childish humour from weak mirds proceeds ;
And blood untainted still doth red abide,

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
Blushing at that which is so putrify’d.

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. Å
Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries, Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv’d. In such relenting dew of lamentations :
If in the child the father's image lies,

But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unlivd? To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd. That they will suffer ihese abominations,
If children pre-decease progenitors,

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'do
Poor broken glass, I often did behold

Now by the Capitol that we adore,
In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd,
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's stora
Shows me a bare-bon’d death by time out-worn; By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd,
o, from thy cheeks my imago thou hast torn! And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd
And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,

Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
That I no more can see what once I was.

We will
revenge

the death of this true wife.
O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
If they surcease to be, that should survive, And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow;
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And to his protestation urg?d the rest,
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?

Who wondering at him, did his words allow :
The old bees die, the young possess their hive : Then jointly to the ground their knces they bow; ?
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see And that deep vow which Brutus made before,
Thy father die, and not thy father thee!

He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
By this starts Collatine as from a dream,

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ; They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;
And then in key-cold Lucreco' bleeding stream To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence :
And counterfeits to die

Which being done with speedy diligence,
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, The Romans plausibly did give consent
And live io be revenged on her death.

To Tarquin's everlasting banishment,

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SONNETS.

TO THE ONLY BEG ETTER OF THESE ENSUING SONNETS,

MR. W. H.

ALL HAPPINESS, AND THAT ETERNITY PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET,

WISHETH THE

WELL-WISHING ADVENTURER IN SETTING FORTH,

T. T.

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1.

Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Frox fairest creatures we desire increase,

Which, used, lives thy executor to be. That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

V. But as the riper should by time decease, Those hours, that with gentle work did frame, His lender heir might bear his mentory:

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Will play the tyrants to the very same, Feed'st thy light's fame with self-substantial fuel. And ihai unfair, which fairly doth excel; Making a famine where abundance lies,

For never-resting time leads summer on Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel, To hideous winter and confounds him there; Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Beauty o'er-snow'd, and bareness every where : Within thine own bud buriest thy content, Then, were not summer's distillation left, And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding. A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Pity' the world, or else this glutton be,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was : II.

But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,

Lose but their show; their substance still livos When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

sweet, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

VI.
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be tatier'd weed, of small worth held :

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;

Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some placa To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,

With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

That use is not forbidden usury,
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, That's for thyself to breed another thee,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan ;
If thou could'st answer—This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old escuse,-

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one ;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made, when thou art old,

If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee :
And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold. Then what could death do, if thou should'st depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity ?
III.

Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,

To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. Now is the time that face should form another;

VII.
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Lifts up his buruing head, each under eye
For where is she so fair, whose un-ear'd womb Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?

Serving with looks his sacred majesty ;.
Or who is he so fond, will be the lomb

And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hilla of his sell-love, to stop posterity ?

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thoe Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Calls back the lovely April of her prime : Attending on his golden pilgrimago;
So thou through windows of thinc age shalt see,

But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Despite of wrinkles, this the golden time,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

'fore duteous, now converted are Die single, and thine image dies with thee. From his low tract, and look another way :

So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
IV.

Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

VIII.
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend;

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? And being frank, she lends to those are free.

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly? The bounteous largess given thee to give ?

Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?

By unions married, do offend thine ear, For having traffic with thyself alone,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear. Then how, when nature calls thee to be

gone, *i. e. Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Sonnets What acceptable audit canst thou leave

I were first entered in Stationers' Hall.

The eyes,

Mark, how one string, sweet husband to another, Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Strikes each in each, by mutual ordering ;, Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing : And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, O! none but unthrifts :--Dear my love, you know,
Sings this to thee, “thou single wilt prove none.” You had a father ; let your son say so.
IX.

XIV.
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck ;
That thou consum'st thyself in single life ? And yet methinks I have astronomy ;
Ah! if thou issueless shall hap to die,

But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
The world will wail thee, liko a makeless wife; Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality :
The world will be thy widow, and still weep, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind, Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
When every private widow well may keep, Or say, with princes if it shall go well,
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind. By oft predici that I in heaven find :
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend, But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; And (constant stars) in them I read such arty
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it.

If from thyself to store thou would'st convert : No love towards others in that bosom sits,

Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thal on himself such murderous shame commits. Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and dater
X.

XV.
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, When I consider every thing that grows
Who for thyself art so unprovident.

Holds in perfection but a little moment;
Grant if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, That this huge state presenteth nought but showir
But that thou none lov'st, is most evident; Whereon the stars in secret influence comment ;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, When I perceive that men as plants increase,
That 'gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire ; Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. And wear their brave state out of memory; 0, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love? Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Where wasteful time debateth with decay, Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove : To change your day of youth to sullied night; Make thee another self, for love of me,

And, all in war with time, for love of you, That beauty still may live in thine or theo. As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XI.

XVI. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st But wherefore do not you a mightier way. In one of thine, from that which thou departest;. Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, And fortify yourself in your decay Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth con. With means more blessed than my barren: rhyme ?! Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; (vertest. Now stand you on the top of happy hours ; Without this, folly, age, and cold decay:

And many maiden gardens, yet unset, If all were minded so, the times should cease, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, And threescore years would make the world away. Much liker than your painted counterfeit : Let those whom nature hath not made for store, So should the lines of life that life repair, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish : Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more; Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair, Which bounteous gift thou 'should'st in bounty Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. cherish:

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still;
She carv'd thee for her scal, and meant thereby And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill..
Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.

XVII.
XII.

Who will believe my verse in time to como,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ?
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ;
When I behold the violet past prime,

Though yet heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.. And sable curls, all silverd o'er with white;

If I could write the beauty of your eyes, When lofty trees I see harren of leaves,

And in frush numbers number all your graces, Which eret from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

The age to conne would say, this poet lies, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ;

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd eartály facet, Then of thy beauty do I question make,

So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,

Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tonguo ;That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,

And stretched metre of an antique song : And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence, But were some child of yours alive thai timo, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. You should live twico ;-in it, and in my rhyme.. XIII.

XVIII. 0, that you were yourself! but, love, you aro Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? No longor yours, ihan you yourself here live : Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Against this coming end you should prepare, Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And your sweet semblance to some other give. And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sn should that beauty which you hold in lease, Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, Find no determination: then you were

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; Yourself again, after yourself's decease,

And every fair from fair sometime declinos, When yoar sweet issuo your sweet form should bear. By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd', But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Who plead for love, and look for recompence,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; More than that tongue that more hath more on
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

press'd.
When in eternal lines to time thou growest : 0, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XXIV.
XIX.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steeld
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; My body is the frame wherein 'uis held,

And
Pluck the heen teeth from the fierce liger's jaws, perspective it is best painter's art.
And burn the long-liv'd phenix in her blood;

For through the painter must you see his skill, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou Pret'st,

To find where your true image pictur'd lies; And do whate'er thou wilt, swifi-footed Time,

Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, To the wide world, and all her fading sweets;

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done; 0, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Hirn in thy course untainted do allow,

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart. My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XXV.
XX.

Let those who are in favour with their stars,
A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted,

of public honour and proud titles boast, Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook'd for joy in that I honour mosi.
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; But as the marigold at the sun's eye ;

Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
An eye more brighi than theirs, less false in rolling, And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling, [zeth.

For at a frown they in their glory die. Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls ama- The painful warrior famoused for fight, And for a woman weri thou first created ;

After a thousand victories once foil'd; Till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

Is from the book of honour razed quite, And by addition me of thee defeated,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. By adding one thing to my purpose nothing,

Then happy I, that love and am belor'd,
But since she prick’ thee out for women's pleasure, Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd.
Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their ireasure.

XXVI.
XXI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
So is it not with me, as with that muse

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;

To thee I send this written embassage,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse ;
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,

To witness duty, not to show my wit :
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine Making a couplement of proud compare,

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:

But that I hope some good conceit of thine
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
O let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair

And puts apparel on my tatter'd lovmg,

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect :
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; (me. Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

Till then, not show my head where thou may'st prove I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.

XXVII.
XXII.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd; My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

But then begins a journey in my head, So long as youth and thou are of one date ;

To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Then look I death my days should expiaté.

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, For all that beauty that doth cover thee,

And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Looking on darkness which the blind do sce: Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me;

Save that my soul's imaginary sight How can I then be elder than thou art?

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,

Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night, As I not for myself but for thee will;

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new, Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

Lo thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain ;

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.

XXVIII.
XXIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,

That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? As an unperfect actor on the stage,

When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, Who with his fear is put besides his part,

But dav by night, and night by day, oppress'd ? Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own Do in consent shake hands to torture me; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say [heart ; | The one bv toil, the other to complain The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

How far l toil, still farther off from thee. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, I tell the dav, to please him, thon art bright, O'er-charg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven. 0, let my books be then the eloquence

So Aalter I the swart-complexion'd night And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the eveni

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