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To let bafe 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 fuch a falve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the difgrace ::
Nor can thy fhame give phyfick to my grief,
Tho' thou repent, yet I have ftill the cross;
Th' offender's forrow lends but weak relief
To him, that beareth ftrong offences cross.

Ah! but thofe tears are pearl which thy love fheds,
And they are rich, and ranfom all ill deeds.

No more be griev'd at that which thou haft done,
Rofes have thorns, and filver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipfes ftain both moon and fun,
And loathfome canker lives in fweeteft bud.
All men make faults, and even in this,
Authorifing thy trefpafs with compare,
Myfelf corrupting, falving thy amiss,
Excufing their fins more than their fins are ::
For to my fenfual fault I bring incense,
Thy adverfe 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 forely robs from me.

Unanimity.

Let me confefs, that we two must be twain,
Altho' our undivided loves are one:

So fhall those bolts, that do with me remain
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.

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In our two loves there is but one respect,
Tho' in our lives a feparable fpite;

Which tho' it alter not love's fole effect,
Yet doth it steal fweet hours from love's delight..
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Left my bewailed guilt fhould do thee fhame,
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..

As a decrepit father takes deliglit

To see his active child do deeds of youth;
So I, made lame by fortune's deareft fpite,.
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,.
of thefe all, or all, or more,

Or

any

Intitled in their parts, do crowned fit,

I make my love ingrafted to this store:

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,. Whilft that this fhadow doth fuch fubftance give, That I in thy abundance am fuffic'd,

And by a part of all thy glory live:

Look what is beft, that beft I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.

Loth to depart.

Good night, good reft; ah! neither be my fhare ::
She bad good night, that kept my rest away;
And daft me to a cabben hang'd with care,
To defcant on the doubts of my decay.

Farewel (quoth she) and come again to-morrow ;
Eare well I could not, for I fupt with forrow..

Yet at my parting fweetly did she smile,
In fcorn, or friendship, nill I conster whether :
It may be the joy'd to jeft at my exile;
It may be again to make me wander thither.
Wander (a word) for fhadows like thyself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the caft!
My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth cite each moving fenfe from idle reft,
Not daring truft the office of mine eyes.

While Philomela fits and fings, 1 fit and mark,
And with her lays were tuned like the lark.

For the doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night :
The night fo packt, I poft unto my pretty;
Heart bath his hope, and eyes their wifhed fight;
Sorrow chang'd to folace, and folace mixt with
forrow;

For why? the figh'd, and bad me come to-morrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too foom,.
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To fpite me now, each minute feems an hour,
Yet not for me, fhine fun to fuccour flowers.

Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow,

Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.

A Mafter-Piece.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath fleel'd Thy 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 muft you fee his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bofom's fhop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now fee what good turns eyes for eyes have done;
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breaft, where thro' the fun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

their art,

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace
They draw but what they fee, know not the heart.

Happiness in Content.

Let those who are in favour with their ftars,
Of publick honour and proud titles boaft:
Whilft I, whom fortune of fuch triumph bars,
Unlook'd-for joy in that I honour most.

Great princes favourites their fair leaves fpread,
But as the marigold at the fun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoufed for worth,
After a thousand victories, once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the reft forgot, for which he toil'd.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

A Dutiful Meffage.

Lord of my love, to whom in vaffalage

Thy merit hath my duty ftrongly knit;

To thee I fend this written embaffage,
To witnefs duty, not to fhew my wit.
Duty fo great, which wit fo poor as mine
May make feem bare, in wanting words to fhew it;
But that I hope fome good conceit of thine

In my foul's thought (all naked) will beftow it.
Till whatsoever ftar, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of their fweet respect.
Then may
I dare to boast how I do love thee :
Till then, not show my head, where thou may'st

Go and Come quickly.

How heavy do I journey on the way,.

[prove me.

When that I feek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach that eafe and that repose to say,
Thus far the miles are meafur'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 inftinct 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 sharp to me, than spurring 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 speed.
From where thou art, why should I hafte me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.

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