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They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense ;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds :
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
0, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee!
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see!

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised everywhere.

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less :
Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd;
So are those errors that in thee are seen,
To truths translated, and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate !
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state !
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

() truant Muse, what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not haply say,
“ Truth needs no color with his color fix'd,
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay:
But best is best, if never intermix'd ?"-
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so ; for it lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him secm long hence as he shows now.

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CII. How like a winter hath my absence been

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

seeming; What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! I love not less, though less the show appear: What old December's bareness everywhere! That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming And yet this time remov'd3 was summer's time; The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Our love was new, and then but in the spring, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays; Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;

Not that the summer is less pleasant now For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, And thou away, the very birds are mute;

But that wild music burthens every bough, Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,

Because I would not dull you with my song.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,

Alack! what poverty my muse brings forth,

That having such a scope to show her pride, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.

The argument, all bare, is of more worth,

Than when it hath my added praise beside. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

( blame me not if I no more can write! Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell,

Look in your glass, and there appears a face Or from their proud lap pluck them where they Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

That over-goes my blunt invention quite, grew: Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

To mar the subject that before was well ?

For to no other pass my verses tend,
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, As with your shadow I with these did play:

Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

The forward violet thus did I chide:

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that

For as you were when first your eye I eyed, smells,

Such seems your beauty stil. Three winters' cold If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.

In process of the seasons have I seen;

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, • Time of absence.

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Haih motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

That it could so preposterously be stain'd, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

CV. Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my song and praises be, To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence. Therefore my verse, to constancy confin'd, One thing expressing, leaves out dillerence. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope af

fords. Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.

сх. Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view, Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is

most dear, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth Askance and strangely; but, by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worst essays prov'd thee my best of love. Now all is done, save what shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am contin'd. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the

best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

O for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my lite provide,
Than public means, which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand.
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eysel1,6 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shaines and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes, right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:-

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you pretiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Suppos'd as forfeit to a contin'd doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assurd, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII. What's in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page;

Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead.

0, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my fiame to qualify!
As easy might I froin myself depart,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again;
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd, -
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

• Submits.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth lack
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favor, or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.

Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true inind thus maketh mine untrue.

CXIV. Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Drink up the monarch's plague, this lattery, Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchymy, To make of monsters and things indigest, Such cherubims as your sweet selt' resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best, As fast as objects to his beams assemble? 0, 'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup: Wounded.

& Vinegar.

If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.


CXX. Those lines that I before have writ, do lie,

That you were once unkind, befriends me now, Even those that said I could not love you dearer; And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Yet then my judgment knew no reason why Needs must I under my transgression bow, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents For if you were by my unkindness shaken, Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, As I by yours, you have passed a hell of time; Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. Alas! why, fearing of Time's tyranny,

O that our night of woe might have remember'd Might I not then say, "Now I love you best,” My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, When I was certain o'er incertainty,

And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? The humble salve which wounded bosons fits! Love is a babe; then might I not say so,

But that your trespass now becomes a fee : To give full growth to that which stili doth grow? Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.


CXXI. Let me not to the marriage of true minds

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemid, Admit impediments. Love is not love

When not to be receives reproach of being, Which alters when it alteration finds,

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Or bends with the remover to remove:

Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

For why should others' false adulterate eyes That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; Give salutation to my sportive blood ? It is the star to every wandering bark,

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be which in their wills count bad what I think good? taken.

No.-I am that I am; and they that level Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks At my abuses, reckon up their own: Within his bending sickle's compass come; I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

shown; If this be error, and upon me proy'd,

Unless this general evil they maintain,-. I never writ nor no man ever lov'd.

All men are bad, and in their badness reign.


CXXII. Accuse me thus; that I have scanted all

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Wherein I should your great deserts repay; Full characier'd with lasting memory, Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

Beyond all date, even to eternity:
That I have frequent been with unknown minds, Or at the least so long as brain and heart
And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right; Have faculty by nature to subsist;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Till each to razd oblivion yield his part Which should transport me farthest from your of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. sight.

That poor retention could not so much hold, Book both my wilfulness and errors down,

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score; And on just proof surmise accumulate,

Therefore to give them from me was I bold, Bring me within the level of your frown,

To trust those tables that receive thee more: But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate :

To keep an adjunct to remember thee, Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove

Were to import forgetfulness in me.
The constancy and virtue of your love.


No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

Thy pyramids built up with newer might With eager compounds we our palate urge: To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; As, to prevent our maladies unseen,

They are but dressings of a former sight. We sicken to shun sickness, when we purge; Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweet

What thou dost foist upon us that is old; ness,

And rather make them born to our desire, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,

Than think that we before have heard them told. And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

Thy registers and thee I both defy,
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing. Noi wondering at the present nor the past;
Thus policy in love, to anticipate

For thy records and what we see do lie,
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, Made more or less by thy continual haste:
And brought to medicine a healthful state,

This I do vow, and this shall ever be, Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.

I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.


If my dear love were but the child of state,

It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate, Distill'd from limbecs foul as hell within,

Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

gather'd. still losing when I saw myself to win!

No, it was builded far from accident; What wretched errors hath my heart committed, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! Under the blow of thralled discontent, How have mine eyes out of their spheres been

Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls: fitted,

It fears not policy, that heretic, In the distraction of this madding fever!

Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, O benefit of ill! now I find true

But all alone stands hugely politic, That better is by evil still made better;

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,

showers. Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. To this I witness call the fools of time, * Subjected to fits.

Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime. CXXV.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. Were it aught to me I bore the canopy,

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
With my extern the outward honoring,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. Have I not seen dwellers on form and favor

I love to hear her speak,- yet well I know Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,

That music hath a far more pleasing sound; For compound sweet forgoing simple savor,

I grant I never saw a goddess go, Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ?

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground; No;-let me be obsequious in thy heart,

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

As any she belied with false compare.
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd inforner! a true soul,

When most impeach'd, stands least in thy con- Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart CXXVI.

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold, Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour:.

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st! Although I swear it to myself alone. If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

And, to be sure that is not false I swear, As thou go'st onwards, still will pluck thee back,

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

One on another's neck, do witness bear May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure; In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure:

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.


Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain; In the old age black was not counted fair,

Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And truly not the morning sun of heaven And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame: Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Doth half that glory to the sober west, Sweet beauty, hath no name, no holy hour, As those two mourning eyes become thy face; But is protan'd, if not lives in disgrace.

0, let it then as well beseem thy heart Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Her eyes so suited: and they mourners seem And suit thy pity like in every part. At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Then will I swear beauty herself is black, Slandering creation with a false esteem:

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says, beauty should look so.


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

Is 't not enough to torture me alone, With thy sweet tingers, when thou gently sway'st

But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be ? The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, Do I envy those jacks,s that nimble leap

And my next self thou harder hast engross'd; To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken; Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest

A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd.

Prison iny heart in thy steel bosom's ward, reap; At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand ?

But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; To be so tickled, they would change their state

Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; And situation with those dancing chips,

Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol: O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

And yet thou wilt, for I, being pent in thce, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy tingers, me thy lips to kiss.

So now I have confess'd that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will;
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still: Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight;

He learn'd but, surety-like, to write for me,
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,

Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad :
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;

And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

So him I lose through my unkind abuse. A bliss in proof,—and prov'd, a very woe;

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me; Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream:

He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,

And will to boot, and will in over-plus;

More than enough am I that vex thee still, My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; To thy sweet will making addition thus. Coral is far more red than her lips' red :

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, • Small bammers, moved by keys, which strike the

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine! strings of a virginal.

• Obligation.

go wide.

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, And in my will no fair acceptance shiné?

Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

That I may not be so, nor thou belied, And in abundance addeth to his store;

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will One will of mine, to make thy large will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote. Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, Nor are my ears with thy tongue's tune delighted And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone; Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. Nor taste nor smell, desire to be invited Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

To any sensual feast with thec alone: Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

But my five wits, nor my five senses can In things of great receipt with ease we prove; Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Among a number one is reckon'd none.

Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, Then in the number let me pass untold,

Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Though in thy stores' account I one must be ; Only my plague thus far I count my gain, For nothing bold me, so it please thee hold

That she that makes me sin, awards me pain. That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lov'st me,--for my name is Will.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O but with mine compare thou thine own state, Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; That they behold, and see not what they see?

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, They know what beauty is, see where it lies, That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.

And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine; If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks

Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee; Whercto the judgment of my heart is tied ?

Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, place? Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

By self-example may'st thou be denied!
To put fair truth upon so foul a face;
In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,

And to this false plagúe are they now transferr’d. Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her feather'd creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch When my love swears that she is made of truth,

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay; I do believe her, though I know she lies;

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, That she might think me some untutor'd youth,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent Unlearned in the world's false subtilties.

To follow that which flies before her face, Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; Although she knows my days are past the best,

So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue,

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; On both sides thus is simple truth supprest.

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind : And wherefore say not I that I am old ?

So will I pray that thou may'st have thy Will, 0, love's best habít is in seeming trust,

If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. And age in love loves not to have years told: Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

CXLIV. And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still;

The better angel is a man right fair,
O, call not me to justify the wrong

The worser spirit a woman, color'd ill. That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue; | And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Tempteth my better anges from my side,
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside.

And whether thai my angel be turn'd fiend, What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; might

But, being both from me, both to each friend, Is more than my o’erpress'd defence can 'bide ?

I guess one angel in the other's hell. Let me excuse thee; ah! my love well knows

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am ncar slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,,

Breath'd forth the sound that said, “I hate," CXL.

To me that languish'd for her sake:

But when she saw my woeful state, Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

Straight in heart did mercy come, My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express Was used in giving gentle doom; The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

And taught it thus anew to greet: If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

“I hate" she alter'd with an end, Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;

That follow'd it as gentle day
(As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, Doth follow night, who like a fiend
No news but health from their physicians know;) From heaven io hell is flown away.
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

“I hate" from hate away she threw, And in my madness might speak ill of thee: And sav'd my life, saying—“not you."

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