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That, to my use, it might unused stay

Froin hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
For all the day they view things unrespected; Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
But when I sleep, in dreains they look on thee, Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care,
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed'; Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show Within the gentle closure of my breast,
To the clear day, with thy much clearer light, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made And even thence thou wilt be stolen I fear,
By looking on thee in the living day,

For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
When in dead night thy fair imperiect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?

All days are nights to see, till I see thee,
And nights, bright days, when dreams do show | Against that time, if ever that time come,
thee me.

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.
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leisure with my moan;

Receiving nought by elements so slow

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.
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:

This told. I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:

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;
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;

Since from thee going he went wilful slow,
And by their verdict is determined

Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
The clear eye's inoiety, and the dear heart's part:
As thus; inine eye's due is thine outward part,

And my heart's right thine inward love of heart.

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,
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
And each doth good turns now unto the other: Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,

Since seldom coming, in the long year set,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, Or captain6 jewels in the carcanet.
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:

So is the time that keeps you, as my chest,
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: To make some special instant special-blest,
So, either by thy picture or my love,

By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Thyself away art present still with me;

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,

Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight

Awakes my heart io heart's and eye's delight.

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,
How careful was I when I took my way,

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,

• Chief.


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,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:

That you yourself may privilege your time:
Speak of the spring, and foizon of the year; Do what you will, to you it doth belong
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
The other as your bounty doth appear,

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;.
And you in every blessed shape we know.

Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.


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.
Bui you shall shine more bright in these contents

Nativity, once in the main of light,
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory tight,
And broils root out the work of masonry,

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.
That wear this world out to the ending doom
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

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.
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd,


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,
Nor services to do, till you require.

And for myself mine own worth do define,
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, As I all other in all worths surmount.
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,

Beated and chopp'd with tann'd'antiquity,
When you have bid your servant once adieu; Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Self so self loving were iniquity.
Where you may be, or your atfairs suppose,

'Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
But, like a sad slave stay and think of nought, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Save, where you are how happy you make those :
So true a fool is love, that in your will

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

more rare.

And him as for a map doth nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them, still green.


When I have seen by Time's sell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat’ry main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself' confounded to decay ;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-
That time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as toes commend.
Thine outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By seeing tarther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds,
Then (churls) their thoughts although their eyes

were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds :

But why thy odor matcheth not thy show,
The solves is this,-that thou dost common gror.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower ?
0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wrecktul siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack;
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ?

O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that ties in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast past by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst



Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,-
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith ur happily foresworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled.
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:

Tired of all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say), you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay:

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And inock you with me after I am gone..


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
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death,-dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
0. lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.

For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth

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;

1 Beauty.

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.

• Ow).

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,

Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that, is that which it contains, 0, how I faint when I of you do write,
And that is this, and this with thee remains. Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

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)
So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,

The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
Or as sweet season'd showers are to the ground; My saucy bark, interior far to his,
And for the peace of you I hold such strife

On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found; Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

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 :
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, The worst was this;-my love was my decay.
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

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:

of men.
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent;

For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

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
Commit to these waste blanks. and thou shalt find Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

These offices, so ont as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. I never saw that you did painting need,

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,
Which should example where your equal grew ? Against thy reasons making no detence.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,

Thou cansi not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
That to his subject lends not some small glory; To set a form upon desired change,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell

As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
That you are you, so dignities his story,

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.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,
Being fond of praise, which makes your praises For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate,


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 :
And precious phrase by all the muses til'd.2 Ah! do not, when my heart bath scap'd this sorrow,
I think good ihoughts, while others write good Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
And, like unietter'd clerk, still cry “Amen" To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.
To every hymn that able spirit ailords,

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
In polish'd form of well-retined pen,

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,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


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;
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And life no longer than thy love will stay,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: For it depends upon that love of thine.
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

When in the least of them my life hath end.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? I see a better state to me belongs
And for that riches where is my deserving? Than that which on thy humor doth depend.
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
And so my patent back again is swerving. Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
Thyseli thou gav'st, thy own worth then not know- o what a happy title do I find,

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!
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.


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;

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