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Oh! what-a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chuse out thee:
Where beauty's veil doth cever every blot,
And all -things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege,
The hardest knise, ill us'd, doth lose his edge*

Cimplaint for his Lover's Absence.

How'like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year !1
What freezings have-1 selt, what dark days seen?'
What old December's barrenness every where?
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time
The teeming. autumn big*. with rich increase, .
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime-,
Like widow'd wombs aster their lord's decease.
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me,
But hope of orphans and un-father'd fruit;
F.or summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thoji way, .the very birds are mute:
Or if. they ..sing, 'tis with fo.dull a chear,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near,-

Fron>you have I been absent in the spring,

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 Jays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different slowers in odour and in hue,

Cou'd make me any lummer's story tell;

Or from their.proud lap pluck them where they grew.

Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor.praile the jdeep vetmillion. in the lose

They were but sweet, but sigures of delight,
Drawn aster you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter (till, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play..

The forward violet thus did I chide;
Sweet thief! whence didst thou steal thy sweet that"

If not from my love's breath? the purple pride,
Which on thy foft cheek tor complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grofly dy'd:
The lily I condemned lor thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair i..
The roses searfully on thorns did Hand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robb'ry had annex'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growths
A vengesul canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

An Invocation to his Muse.

"Where art thou muse, that thou forget'st so long;
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ?..
Spend'itthou thy sury on fome worthless fong,
Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, sorgetsul muse, and strait redeem,
In gentle numbers, time fo icHy spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And give thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey* .
If time hath any wrinkle graven there;

If any, be a fatire to decay,

And make time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame, faster than time wastes lise,
So thou prevent'st his scithe, and crooked knise.

Oh! truant muse! whall shall be thy amends,

Tor thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?

But truth and beauty on my love depends:

So dost thou too, and therein dignify'd.

Make answer, muse, wilt thou not haply fay,

Truth needs no colour with his colour six'd;

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;

But best is best, if never intermixed.

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse no silence so, 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 ossice, muse, I teach thee how

To make her seem long hence, as she shows now.

Constant Affettion.

To me, fair love, you never can be old;

For as you were when sirst your eye I ey'd, .

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forest shook three summers pride;

Three beauteoirs springs to yellow Autumn turn'd,

In process of the seasons, have I seen;

Three April persumes in three hot Junes bnrn'd,

Since sirst I faw you, fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

Steal from his sigure, and no place perceiv'd;

So your sweet hue, which, methinks, still does stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be decciv'd.

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

Let not my love be call'd Idolatry,
Nor roy beloved as an idle show;
Since all aKke my fongs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so:
Kind is my love to day,'to-mcrrow kind,
Still constant in a wond'rous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy consin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
"Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument;
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this.changc is my invention spent;
Three themes in-one, -which wond'rous scope 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 see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhime,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights-;
Then in the blazon ot sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I.see their antic pen would have express'd
.Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises-are but prophecies
Of this our time, all our presiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not still enough their worth to sing:
For we who now behold these present days,
Have eyes- to wonder, bat lack tongues to praise.


My love is ftrength'ned, tho' more weak in seeming i

I love not less, tho' less the show appear:
That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming
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 Philomeil in summer's front doth. sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days.
Not that the summer is less pleafant now,
Than when .her mournsul hymns did hush the

But that wild musick burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common, lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I fometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

Alack! what poverty my muse 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 beside.
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, arid doing my disgrace.
"Were it not sinsul then, striving to mend,
To marr the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces, ^nd your gifts' to tell;
And more, much more/than in my verse can sit,
Tour own glass shows you, when you look in it.

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