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To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that thro' the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face;
For no man well of such a falve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace :
Nor can thy shame give pbysick to my grief,
Tho' thou repent, yet I have still the cross;
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him, that oeareth strong offences 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 hast done,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Glonds and edlipfes stain both moon and sun,
And loathfome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in thi%>
Authorising thy trespass with compare) .
Myself corrupting, falving thy amiss,
Excusing their sins more than their sins are :•.
For to: my sensual fault-I bring incense,
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 accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which forely robs from me*
Let me consess, that we two must be twain,
Altho' our undivided loves are one:
So shall those bolts, that do with me remain
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Tho' hi our lives a separable spite;
Which tho' it alter not love's sole effect,
Y.et dotrr it steal sweet hours ftom love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shamei
Nor thou with publick kindness honour me,.
Unless thou take that honour from thy name.
But do not fo, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine. is thy good report..
Act- a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth';
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,.
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,.
Or any of these all', or all', or more,
Intitled in their parts, do crowned sit,
I" make my love ingrasted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'3,.
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give;
That I in thy abundance am sussic'd,
And by a part"of all thy glory live:
Look what isbest;, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
Loth to depart;
Good night, good rest; ah! neither be my share:
She bad good night, that kept my rest away;
And dast me to a cabben hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewel (quoth she) and come again to-morrow }
Eare well-1 could not, for I fupt with forrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn, or friendship, nill 1 conster whether:
It may be she joy'd to jest at my exile;-
It may be again to make me wander thither.
Wander (a word) for shadows like thyself^
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rife-
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the ossice of mine eyes.
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,..
And drives away dark dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow chang'd to folace, and folace mixt with'
Eor why? she sigh'd, and bad me come to-morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too foon-,
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,
Yet not for me, shine fun to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow,
Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steel's. Tihy beauty's form in table of my heart:
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For thro' the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done;
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where thro' the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Happiness in Content.
Xet those who are in favour with their stars,
Of publick honour and proud titles boast:
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd-for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye $
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Tor at a fiown they in their glory die.
The painsul warrior famoused for worth,
After a thoufand victories, once foil'd,
'Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot, for which he toil'd.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.
A Dutiful Message.
Lord of my love, so whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to shew my wit.
'Duty fo great, which wit fo poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to shew ft^
But that I hope fome good conceit of thine
In my foul's thought (all naked) will bestow it.
Till whatsoever star, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciousty with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatrer'd loving,
To show me worthy of their sweet respect.
Then may 1 dare to boast how I do love thee:
Till then, not show my head, where thou may'st
Gq and Come quickly.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When that I seek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to fay,
Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friends?
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 spur cannot provoke him on,
That fometimes anger Æhrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me, than spurring to his side,'
For that fame groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Thus can my love excuse the flow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed.
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, .of posting is no need.