Tir'd with all thefe, for reftful death I cry,-
As, to behold defert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trim'd in jollity,
And pureft faith unhappily forfworn,
And gilded honour fhamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely ftrumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping fway disabled,
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controling skill,
And fimple truth miscall'd fimplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:
Tir'd with all thefe, from thefe would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Ah! wherefore with infection fhould he live,
And with his prefence grace impiety,
That fin by him advantage should atchieve,
And lace itself with his fociety?
Why should falfe painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead feeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly feek
Roses of shadow, fince his rofe is true?
Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For fhe hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him the stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long fince, before these last so bad.
Thus is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard figns of fair were borne,
Or durft inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden treffes of the dead,
The right of fepulchres, were fhorn away,
To live a fecond life on fecond head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him thofe holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no fummer of another's green,
Robbing no old to drefs his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To fhow falfe art what beauty was of yore.
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 fouls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even fo as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those fame tongues that give thee fo thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By feeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guefs, 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 odour matcheth not thy fhow,
The folve is this,-that thou doft common grow.
That thou art blam'd fhall not be thy defect,
For flander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is fufpect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, flander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou prefent'ft a pure unftained prime.
Thou haft pafs'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praife cannot be fo thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:
If fome fufpect of ill mafk'd not thy fhow,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'ft owe.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the furly fullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vileft worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you fo,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I fay) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay :
Left the wife world fhould look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
O, left the world should task you to recite
What merit liv'd in me, that you fhould love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you
in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devife fome virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own defert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart :
O, left your true love may feem falfe in this,
That you for love fpeak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to fhame nor me nor you.
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And fo fhould you, to love things nothing worth.
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 fang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after fun-fet fadeth in the weft,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond felf, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou feest the glowing of fuch fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'ft, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conqueft of a wretch's knife,
Too bafe of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that this is, and this with thee remains.
So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as fweet-feafon'd fhowers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold fuch strife
As 'twixt a mifer and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting beft to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may fee my pleasure :
Sometime, all full with feafting on your fight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Poffeffing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or muft from you be took.
Thus do I pine and furfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
|
