Imatges de pàgina
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LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full fail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by fpirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my filence cannot boast;
I was not fick of any fear from thence.

But when your countenance fil'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewel! thou art too dear for my poffeffing,
And like enough thou know'ft thy estimate :
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deferving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And fo my patent back again is fwerving.

Thyself thou gav'ft, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In fleep a king, but waking, no fuch matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be difpos'd to fet me light,
And place my merit in the eye of Scorn,
Upon thy fide against myself I'll fight,

And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forfworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can fet down a story

Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;
That thou, in lofing me, shall win much glory :
And I by this will be a gainer too;

For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I fo belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

Say that thou didst forfake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence :
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, difgrace me half fo ill,
To fet a form upon defired change,
As I'll myself difgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance ftrangle, and look strange;
Be abfent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy fweet-beloved name no more shall dwell;
Left I (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,
For I muft ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-lofs :

Ah! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this forrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.

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If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me laft,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come; fo fhall I taste

At first the very worst of Fortune's might;

And other strains of woe, which now feem woe, Compar'd with lofs of thee, will not seem so.

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Some glory in their birth, fome in their skill,
Some in their wealth, fome in their body's force;

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, fome in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the reft;

But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' coft,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boaft.
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

XCII.

But do thy worst to fteal thyself away, `.
For term of life thou art affured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconftant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's fo bleffed-fair that fears no blot ?

Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not:

XCIII.

So fhall I live, fuppofing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; fo love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many looks the falfe heart's history

Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles ftrange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree,

That in thy face fweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy fweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation flow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expence;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The fummer's flower is to the fummer fweet,
Though to itself it only live and die ;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The bafeft weed out-braves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn foureft by their deeds;
Lilies that fefter, fmell far worse than weeds.

XCV.

How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name?
O, in what sweets doft thou thy fins enclofe!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lafcivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot difpraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name bleffes an ill report.
O what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chofe out thee !
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair, that eyes can fee!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

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