Lord of my love, to whom in vaffalage
Thy merit hath my duty ftrongly knit,
To thee I fend this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to fhow my wit.
Duty fo great, which wit fo poor as mine
May make feem bare, in wanting words to fhow it;
But that I hope fome good conceit of thine
In thy foul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever ftar that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspèct,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy fweet respect:
Then may I dare to boaft how I do love thee,
Till then, not show my head where thou may'ft prove me.
Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired;
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open-wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do fee.
Save that my foul's imaginary fight
Presents thy fhadow to my fightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of reft?
When day's oppreffion is not eas'd by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, ftill farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
And doft him grace when clouds do blot the heaven :
So flatter I the fwart-complexion'd night ;
When sparkling ftars twire not, thou gild'ft the even.
But day doth daily draw my forrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length feem stronger.
When in difgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my out-caft state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootlefs cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends poffefs'd,
Defiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented leaft;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost defpifing,
Haply I think on thee,-and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From fullen earth) fings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy fweet love remember'd, fuch wealth brings,
That then I fcorn to change my state with kings.
When to the feffions of fweet filent thought
I fummon up remembrance of things paft,
I figh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste :
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
afresh love's long-fince cancel'd woe,
And moan the expence of many a vanish'd fight.
Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not pay'd before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All loffes are reftor'd, and forrows end.
Thy bofom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obfequious tear
Hath dear religious love ftolen from mine eye,
As intereft of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ;
That due of many now is thine alone :
Their images I lov'd I view in thee,
And thou (all they) haft all the all of me,
If thou furvive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-furvey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time;
And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen,
Referve them for my love, not for their rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought!
Had my friend's mufe grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But fince he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their ftyle I'll read, his for his love.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with fovereign eye,
Kiffing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale ftreams with heavenly alchymy;
Anon permit the baseft clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celeftial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unfeen to weft with this difgrace:
Even fo my fun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant fplendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.
Why didst thou promife fuch a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let bafe clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my ftorm-beaten face,
For no man well of fuch a falve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the difgrace:
Nor can thy fhame give phyfick to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the lofs:
The offender's forrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
No more be griev'd at that which thou haft done.:
Roses have thorns, and filver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and fun,
And loathfome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trefpafs with compare,
Myfelf corrupting, falving thy amifs,
Excusing thy fins more than thy fins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
(Thy adverse party is thy advocate,)
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence :
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an acceffary needs must be
To that sweet thief, which fourly robs from me.
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