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Oh! what a manfion have thofe vices got,
Which for their habitation chufe 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 lofe his edger

Complaint for his Lover's Abfence.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days feen ?··
What old 'December's barrennefs every where ?
And yet
this time remov'd was fummer's time
The teeming autumn big with rich increafe,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease.
Yet this abundant iffue feem'd to me,

But hope of orphans and un-father'd fruit;
For fummer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute ::

Or if they fing, 'tis with fo.dull a chear,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near

From you have I been abfent in the fpring,
When proud py'd April (drest in all his trim)~
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet not the lays of birds, nor the fweet fmell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Cou'd make me any fummer's story tell;

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose ;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet feem'd it winter till, and you away,

As with your fhadow I with thefe did play.

The forward violet thus did I chide;

Sweet thief! whence didft thou fteal thy fweet that fmells,

If not from my love's breath? the purple pride,
Which on thy foft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou haft too grofly dy'd:
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blufhing fhame, another white despair;
A third nor red, nor white, had ftol'n of both,
And to his robb'ry had annex'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could fee,
But fweet or colour it had ftol'n from thee.

An Invocation to his Mufe.

Where art thou mufe, that thou forget'ft fo long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ?..
Spend'st thou thy fury on fome worthless song,
Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects light ?-
Return, forgetful mufe, and ftrait redeem,
In gentle numbers, time fo idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays efteem,
And give thy pen both skill and argument.
Rife, refty mufe, my love's sweet face furvey...
If time hath any wrinkle graven there;.

If any, be a fatire to decay,

And make time's fpoils defpifed every where.
Give my love fame, fafter than time waftes life,
So thou prevent'st his fcithe, and crooked knife.

Oh! truant mufe! whall fhall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?
But truth and beauty on my love depends:
So doft thou too, and therein dignify'd.
Make anfwer, mufe, wilt thou not haply fay,
Truth needs no colour with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But beft is beft, if never intermix'd.

Because he needs no praife, wilt thou be dumb?
Excufe no filence fo, for't lies in thee.
To make her much out-live a gilded tomb,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be..

Then do thy office, mufe, I teach thee how
To make her feem long hence, as the fhows now.

Conftant Affection.

To me, fair love, you never can be old;
For as you were when firft your eye I ey'd,
Such feems your beauty ftill. Three winters cold
Have from the foreft fhook three fummers pride;
Three beauteous fprings to yellow Autumn turn'd,
In process of the feafons, have I feen;

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you, fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure, and no place perceiv'd;
So your fweet hue, which, methinks, ftill does ftand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you was born, was beauty's fummer dead.

Let not my love be call'd Idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idle fhow ; Since all alike my fongs and praises be To one, of one, ftill fuch, and ever so: Kind is my love to day, to-morrow kind, Still conftant in a wond'rous excellence ; Therefore my verfe to conftancy confin'd, One thing expreffing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument; Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent ; Three themes in-one, which wond'rous fcope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone : Which three, till now, have never fate in one.

When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I fee defcriptions of the faireft wights,
And beauty making beautiful-old rhime,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of fweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I.fee their antic pen would have exprefs'd
Even fuch a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all our prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not still enough their worth to fing:
For we who now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praife.

Amazement.

My love is ftrength'ned, tho' more weak in feeming;

I love not lefs, tho' lefs the show appear:
That love is merchandiz'd, whofe rich efteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it in my lays;
As Philomel in fummer's front doth fing,
And ftops his pipe in growth of riper days.
Not that the fummer is lefs pleasant now,

Than when her mournful hymns did hufh the night;

But that wild mufick burdens every bough,

And sweets grown common, lose their dear delight. Therefore like her I fometime hold my tongue, Becaufe I would not dull you with my fong.

Alack! what poverty my mufe brings forth !
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare, is of more worth,
Than when it hath my added praise befide.
Oh! blame me not, if I can no more write!
Look in your glass, and their appears a face,
That overgoes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing my disgrace.
Were it not finful then, ftriving to mend,
To marr the fubje&t that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces, and your gifts to tell:;

And more, much more, than in my verfe can fit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

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