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That, to my use, it might unused stay
Froin hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
When I shall see thee frown on my detects,
When as thy love hath cast its utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass, If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, Injurious distance should not stop my way;
When love, converted from the thing it was, For then, despite of space, I would be brought
Shall reasons und of settled gravity; From lumits lår remote, where thou dost stay.
Against that time do I ensconce me here No matter then although my foot did stand
Within the knowledge of mine own desert, Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee,
And this my hand against myself u prear, För nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: As soon as think the place where he would be.
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, But ah! thought kills me, that I am not thought,
Since, why to love, I can allege no cause.
How heavy do I journey on the way. But heavy tears, badges of either's woe :
When what I seek-my weary travel's end
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
“ Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!" The other two, slight air and purging fire,
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Are both with thee, wherever I abide:
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, The first my thought, the other my desire,
As if by some instinct ihe wretch did know 'These present-absent with swilt motion slide.
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee: For when these quicker elements are gone
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on In tender embassy of love to thee,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, My life, being made of four, with two alone
Which heavily he answers with a groan, Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; Until life's composition be recured
For that same groan doth put this in my mind, By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
From where thou art why should I haste me
thence ? Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
Till I return, of posting is no need. How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
() what excuse will my poor beast then find, Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
When swift extremity can seem but slow? My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind; My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
In winged speed no motion shall I know: (A closet never pierc'd with crystal cyes,)
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; But the defendant doth that plea degy,
Therefore desire, of perfeci love being made, And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
Shall neigh (no dull ilesh) in his fiery race; To 'cide this title is impanneiled
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
Since from thee going he went wilful slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure
The which he will not every hour survey,
Since seldom coming, in the long year set,
So is the time that keeps you, as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend!
Since every one hath, every one, one's shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check Is poorly imitated after you;
Without accusing you of injury. On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
Be where you list; your charter is so strong,
That you yourself may privilege your time:
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;.
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguilid, O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
Which laboring for invention bears amiss By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The second burthen of a former child! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
O, that record could with a backward look, For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
Even of tive hundred courses of the sun, The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye Show me your image in some antique book, As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Since mind at first in character was done! Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly.
That I might see what the old world could say When summer's breath their masked buds dis
To this composed wonder of your frame; closes.
Whether we are mended, or whe's better they, But, for their virtue only is their show,
Or whether revolution be the same. They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade
0! sure I am, the wits of former days Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made;
To subjects worse have given admiring praise. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, LV.
So do our minutes hasten to their end; Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Each changing place with that which goes before, Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory tight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick tire shall burn
Time doth transtix the tourish set on youth, The living record of your memory.
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. room,
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, Even in the eyes of all posterity
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight? Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee Which but to-day by feeding is ailay'd,
So far froin home into my deeds to pry; To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
To find out shaines and idle hours in me, So, love, be thou; although to-day thou till
The scope and tenor of'thy jealousy ? Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
O no! thy love, though much, is not so great; To-morrow see again, and do not kill
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, Let this sad interim like the ocean be
To play the watchman ever for ihy sake: Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elseCome daily to the banks, that, when they see
where, Return of love, more blest may be the view;
From me far off, with others all-too-near.
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy, Being your slave, what should I do but tend It is so grounded inward in my heart. Upon the hours and times of your desire ?
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, I have no precious time at all to spend,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for myself mine own worth do define,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd'antiquity,
'Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
LXIII. (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.
Against my, love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
brow I should in thought control your times of pleasure, With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Hath travell’d on to age's steepy night;, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! And all those beauties, whereof now he's king, 0, let me suffer (being at your beck)
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, The imprison'd absence of your liberty,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring; 51
And him as for a map doth nature store,
For such a time do I now fortify
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
But why thy odor matcheth not thy show,
O none, unless this miracle have might,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Tired of all these, from these would I be gone,
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
LXVII. Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace itself with his society ? Why should false painting imitate his cheek. And steal dead seeing of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is, Beygard of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
0, him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad.
0, lest the world should task you to recite
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
LXVIII. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty liv'd and died as tlowers do now Before these bastard signs of fairy were borne, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second ead, Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself, and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
LXXIII. That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As atter sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. • Solution.
This thou perceiv'st which makes thy love more
LXXIX. strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, long :
My verse alone had all thy genile grace ;,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument But be contented: when that fell arrest
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen: Without all bail shall carry me away,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, My life hath in this line some interest,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give, The very part was consecrate to thee.
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford The earth can have but earth, which is his due: No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
Then thank him not for that which he doth say, So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
The worth of that, is that which it contains, 0, how I faint when I of you do write,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your tame!
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat, Now counting best to be with you alone,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride :
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take, LXXVI.
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal lite shall have, Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: So far from variation or quick change ?
The earth can yield me but a common grave, Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. To new-found methods and to compounds strange? Your inonument shall be my gentle verse, Why write I still all one, ever the same,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And keep invention in a noted weed,
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, That every word doth almost tell my name, When all the breathers of this world are dead; Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen). O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths And you and love are still my argument:
I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook LXXVII.
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thou art as fair in knowledge as in huc, Thy dial how thy precious minutes wasie; Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; The vacant leaves ihy mind's imprint will bear, And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew And of this book this learning may'st thou taste. Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days, The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd Time's thievish progress to eternity.
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; Look what thy memory cannot contain,
And their gross painting might be better us'a
And therefore to your fair no painting set.
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt: So oft have I invok'd thee for my muse,
And therefore have I slept in your report, And found such fair assistance in my verse, That you yourself, being extant, well might show As every alien pen hath got my use,
How far a modern quill doth come too short And under thee their poesy disperse.
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, This silence for my sin you did impute, And heavy ignorance aloft to tly,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; Have added teathers to the learned's wing,
For I impair not beauty being mute, And given grace a double majesty,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb. Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Whose intluence is thme, and born of thee:
Than both your poets can in praise devise. In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance
LXXXIV. As high as learning my rude ignorance.
Who is it that says most? which can say more IA dress known and familiar.
Than this rich praise,-that you alone are you !
In whose confine immured is the store
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Thou cansi not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Not making worse what nature made so clear, Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell; And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Lest I (too much protane) should do it wrong, Making his style admired every where.
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, While comments of your praise, richly compil'd, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, Reserve their character with golden quill,
And do not drop in for an aiter-loss :
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite, Hearing you prais'd, I say, “ 'tis so, 'tis true," But in the onset come; so shall I taste And to the most of praise add something more;
At tirst the very worst of fortune's might; But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Though words come hindmost,holds his rank before. Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force; Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill; Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their
horse ; That bid my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure, Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest; Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
But these particulars are not my measure, No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me, Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, He, nor that ailable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be; As victors, of my silence cannot boast;
And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take I was not sick of any tear from thence. But when your countenance fil'da up his line,
All this away, and me most wretched make. Then lack'd I malter; that en feebled mine.
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
When in the least of them my life hath end.
Happy to have thy love, happy to die! Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot ?So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not: Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new; When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. In many's looks the false heart's history With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange; Upon thy part I can set down a story
But Heaven in thy creation did decree Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted; That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; That thou, in losing me, shalt win much glory: Whate'er ihy thoughts or thy heart's workings And I by this will be a gainer too;
be, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness The injuries that to myself I do,
tell. Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
They that have power to hurt and will do none, Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, That do not do the thing they most do show, And I will comment upon that offence:
Who, moving others, are theinselves as stone, * Polished,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;