Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be affail'd;
And when a woman woos, what woman's fon
Will fourly leave her till the have prevail d.
Ah me! but yet thou might'ft, my fweet, forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy ftraying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forc'd to break a two-fold truth;
Her's, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being falfe to me.
That thou haft her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be faid I lov'd her dearly;
That the hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A lofs in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excufe ye :-
Thou doft love her, because thou know't I love her;
And for my fake even fo doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my fake to approve her.
If I lofe thee, my lofs is my love's gain,
And lofing her, my friend hath found that lefs;
Both find each other, and I lofe both twain,
And both for my fake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery!-then fhe loves but me alone.
When most I wink, then do mine cyes beft fee,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I fleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed,
Then thou, whofe fhadow fhadows doth make
bright,
How would thy fhadow's ferm form happy fhew
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unfeeing eyes thy fhade fhines to?
How would (I fay) mine eyes be bleffed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead right thy fair imperfe&t fhade
Through heavy fleep on fightle's eyes doth stay?
All days are rights to fee, till I fce thee, [thee me.
And nights, bright days, when dreams do fhew
If the dull fubftance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious diftance fhould not ftop my way;
For then, defpite of space, I would be brought
From limits far remote, where thou doft stay.
No matter then, although my foot did stand
Upon the fartheft earth remov'd from thee,
For nimble thought can jump both fea and land,
As foon as think the place where he would be.
But ah! thought kills me, that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that, fo much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leilure with my moan;
Receiving nought by clements fo flow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.
The other two, flight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my defire,
These present-absent with swift motion flide.
For when thefe quicker elements are gone
In tender embaffy of love to thee,
My life being made of four, with two alone,
Sinks down to death, opprefs'd with melancholy;
Until life's compofition be recured
By thofe fwift meflengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, affured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I fend them back again, and ftraight grow fad.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conqueft of thy fight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's fight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead, that thou in him deft lie,
(A clofet never pierc'd with cryftal eyes,)
But the defendant deth that plea deny,
And fays in him thy fair appearance lics.
To 'cide this title is impannelled
A queft of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part :
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right thy inward love of heart.
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famifh'd for a look,
Or heart in love with fighs himself doth fmother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feaft,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth fhare a part:
So, either by thy picture or may love,
Thyfelf away art prefent ftill with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canft move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or if they fleep, thy picture in my fight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under trueft bars to thruft,
That, to my ufe, it might unused stay
From hands of falfehoed, in fore wards of trust !
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Moft worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, beft of deareft, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any cheft,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle clofure of my breaft,
From whence at pleafure thou may'it come and
And even thence thou wilt be stolen I fear, For truth proves thievifh for a prize fo dear.
Again that time, if over that time come, When I fhall fee thee frown on my defects, Whenas thy love hath caft his utmost fum Call'd to that audit by advis'd relpects,
Against that time, when thou shalt ftrangely pafs,
And fcarcely greet me with that fun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reafons find of fettled gravity,
Against that time do I enfconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own defert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reafons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the ftrength of laws,
Since, why to love, I can allege no caufe.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I fcek,-my weary travel's end,-
Doth teach that eafe and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by fome instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody fpur cannot provoke him on
That fometimes anger thrufts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More fharp to me than fpurring to his fide;
For that fame groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Thus can my love excufe the flow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I fpeed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of pofting is no need.
O, what excufe will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can feem but flow?
Then fhould I fpur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged fpeed no motion fhall I know;
Then can no horfe with my defire keep pace;
Therefore defire, of perfect love being made,
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus fhall excuse my jade;
Since from thee going he went wilful flow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
So am I as the rich, whofe bleffed key
Can bring him to his fweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour furvey,
For blunting the fine point of feldom pleasure.
'Therefore are feafts fo folemn and fo rare,
Since feldom coming, in the long year fet,
Like ftones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you, as my cheft,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make fome special inftant fpecial-bleft,
By new unfolding his imprifon'd pride.
Blefied are you, whofe worthinefs gives scope,
Eeing had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
LIII. What is your fubftance. whereof are you made, That millions of ftrae fhadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one flade, And you, but one, can every fhadow lend.
| Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty fet,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the fpring, and foizon of the year;
The one doth fhadow of your beauty fhew,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every bleffed fhape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
O how much more doth beauty beauteous feem,
By that fweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rofe looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on fuch thorus, and play as wantonly
When fummer's breath their masked buds difclofes:
But, for their virtue only is their fhew,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet rufes do not fo;
Of their fweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And fo of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
LV.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, fhall out-live this powerful rhime;
But you shall fhine more bright in these contents
Than unfwept ftone, befmear'd with fluttish time.
When wasteful war fhall ftatues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Marfis fword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainft death and all oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find
Even in the eyes of all pofterity
[room,
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.
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not faid,
Thy edge fhould blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow fharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow fee again, and do not kill
The fpirit of love with a perpetual dulness.
Let this fad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the fhore, where two contracted-new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they fee
Return of love, more bleft may be the view:
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes fummer's welcome thrice more wifh'd,
Being your flave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your defire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor fervices to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilft I, my fovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence four,
When you have bid your fervant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs fuppofe,
But, like a fad flave, ftay and think of nought,
Save, where you are how happy you make thofe :
So true a fool is love, that in your will
(Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.
That God forbid, that made me first your flave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vaffal, bound to stay your leifure!
Oh let me fuffer (being at your beck)
The imprison'd absence of your liberty,
And patience, tame to fufferance, bide each check
Without accufing you of injury.
Be where you lift; your charter is so strong,
That you yourself may privilege your time:
Do what you will, to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of felf-doing crime,
I am to wait, though waiting fo 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 beguil'd,
Which labouring for invention bear amifs
The fecond burthen of a former child?
O that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courfes of the fun,
Shew me your image in fome antique book,
Since mind at firit in character was done!
That I might fee what the old world could fay
To this compofed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the fame.
O! fure I am, the wits of former days
To fubjects worfe have given admiring praise.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes haften to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked ecliples 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish fet on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his fcythe to mow.
And yet, to times in hope, my verfe fhall
ftand,
Praising thy worth, defpite his cruel hand.
Is it thy will, thy image fhould keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Doft thou defire my flumbers fhould be broken,
While fhadows, like to thee, do mock my fight?
Is it thy fpirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;
To find out fhames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenour of thy jealousy?
O no thy love, though much, is not fo great;
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my reft defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy fake: [where,
For thee watch I, whilft thou doft wake elfc-
From me far off, with others all-too-near.
Sin of felf-love poffeffeth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this fin there is no remedy,
It is fo grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face fo gracious is as mine,
No fhape fo true, no truth of fuch account,
And for myfelf mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths furmount.
But when my glaís fhews me myself indeed,
'Bated and chopp'd with tan'd antiquity,
Mine own felf-love quite contrary I read,
Self fo felf-loving were iniquity.
"Tis thee (myfelf) that for myself I praife,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With time's injurious hand crufh'd and o'erworn; When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's fteepy night;
And all thofe beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of fight,
Stealing away the treasure of his fpring;
For fuch a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he fhall never cut from memory
My fweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.
His beauty fhall in thefe black lines be feen,
And they shall live, and he in them ftill green.
When I have feen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of out-worn bury'd age;
When fometime lofty towers I fee down-raz'd,'
And brafs eternal flave to mortal rage;
When I have feen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the fhore,
And the firm foil win of the watry main,
Increasing store with lofs, and loss with store;
When I have feen fuch interchange of ftate,
Or ftate itself confounded to decay;
Ruin bath taught me thus to ruminate-
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choofe
But weep to have that which it fears to lofe.
Since brass, nor ftone, nor earth, nor boundless fea,
But fad mortality o'erfways their power,
How with this rage fhall beauty held a plea,
Whofe action is no fronger than a flower?
O how fhall fummer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful ficge of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so flout,
Nor gates of fteel fo ftrong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall time's beft jewels from time's chest lie hid?
Or what ftrong hand can hold his fwift foot back?
Or who his fpoil of beauty can forbid ?
O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may ftill fhine bright.
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 purest faith unhappily forfworn,
And gilded honour fhamefully mifplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely ftrumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping fway difabled,
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controling skill,
And fimple truth mitcall'd fimplicity,
And captive Good attending captain III :
Tir'd with all thefe, fromt hefe 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 fhould achieve,
And lace itfelf with his fociety?
Why fhould falfe paintir g imitate his check,
And fteal dead fecing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly feek
Rofes of fhadow, fince his rofe is true?
Why fhould he live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to bluth through lively veins?
For the hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
Q, him the ftores, to fhew what wealth fhe had,
In days long fince, before thefe laft fo bad.
Thus is his check the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before thefe baftard signs 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,
E'er beauty's dead fleece made another gay;
In him thofe holy antique hours are feen,
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 flore,
To fhew falfe art what beauty was of yore.
Thofe 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) gave thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even fo as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praife is crown'd;
But thofe fame tongues that give thee fo thine
In other accents do this praife confound, [own,
By feeing farther than the eye hath fhewn.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guefs, they measure by thy deeds;
Then (churls) their thoughts, although their cyes
were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank fmell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy shew,
The folve is this, that thou doft common
grow.
That thou art blam'd shall 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 fweeteft air.
So thou be good, flander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the fweetest 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 praife,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:
If fome fufpect of ill mask'd not thy fhew,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst
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 fhould make you woe.
O if (1 fay) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearic;
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 fhould tafk you to recite
What merit liv'd 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 fome virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own defert,
And hang more praife upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impert:
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 fham'd by that which I bring forth, And fo fhould you, to love things nothing worth.
That time of year you may'ft in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon thofe boughs which thake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the fweet birds
In me thou feeft the twilight of fuch day, [fang.
As after fun-fet fadeth in the weft,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond felf, that feals up all in rest.
In me thou feet the glowing of such fire,
That on the afhes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it muft expire,
Confum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'ft, which makes thy love more
ftrong,
[lorg.
To love that well which thou must leave e'er
But be contented: when that fell arreft
Without all bail fhall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial ftill with thee shall stay.
When thou revieweft this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My fpirit 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 remembred.
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as fweet feafon'd fhewers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold fuch ftrife
As 'twixt a mifer and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will fteal his treafure;
Now counting beft to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may fee my pleafure:
Sometime, all full with feafting on your fight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Poffefling or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and furfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance afide
To new-found methods and to compounds ftrange?
Why write I ftill all one, ever the fame,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Shewing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know, fweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are fill my argument;
So all my best is dreffing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent :
For as the fun is daily new and old,
So is my love ftill telling what is told.
Thy glafs will fhew thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes wafte;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'ft thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glafs will truly fhew,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's fhady ftealth may'st know
Time's thievih progrefs to eternity.
Look, what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to thefe wafte blanks, and thou fhalt find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
Thefe offices, fo foft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.
So oft have I invok'd thee for my mufe,
And found fuch fair afliftance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my ufe,
And under thee their poefy difperfe.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to fing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majetty.
Yet he most proud of that which I compile,
Whofe influence is thine, and born of thee.
In others' works thou doft but mend the ftile,
And arts with thy fweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and doft advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.
Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick mufe doth give another place.
I grant, fweet love, thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robes thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he ftole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praife to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth
fay,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself doft pay.
O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better fpirit doth use your name,
And in the praife thereof fpends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty'd, fpeaking of your fame!
But fince your worth (wide, as the ocean is,)
The humble as the proudeft fail doth bear,
My faucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your fhalloweft help will hold me up afloat,
Whilft he upon your foundnefs deep doth ride;
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthlefs boat,
Ile of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive, and I be cait away,
The worst was this--my love was my decay,
|
