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

As with your shadow I with thefe did play.

The forward violet thus did I chide;

Sweet thief! whence didst thou fteal thy sweet 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 ftol'n thy hair;
The rofes fearfully on thorns did stand,
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 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 fpeak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'ft thou thy fury on fome worthlefs fong,
Dark'ning thy power to lend bafe fubjects light?
Return, forgetful mufe, and ftrait redeem,
In gentle numbers, time fo idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And give thy pen both fkill and argument.
Rife, refty mufe, my love's fweet 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'ft 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 seem long hence, as she shows 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 seen ;

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since firft I faw 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 idol fhow;
Since all alike my fongs and praises be
To one, of one, ftill fuch, and ever fo;
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 descriptions 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 beft,
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 mafter now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not ftill enough your worth to fing:
For we who now behold thefe 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 fhow 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 fpring,
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 pleafant now,
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the
night;

But that wild mufick burdens every bough,

And sweets grown common, lofe 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 fuch a scope to fhow her pride,
The argument all bare, is of more worth,
Than when it hath my added praife befide.
Oh! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face,
That overgoes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me difgrace.
Were it not finful then, ftriving to mend,
To marr the fubject 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.

A Lover's Excufe for his long Abfence.

Oh! never fay that I was falfe of heart,
Tho' abfence feem'd my flame to qualify;
As eafy might I from myfelf depart,

As from my foul which in my breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again

Juft to the time, not with the time exchang'd;
So that myfelf bring water for my ftain.
Never believe, tho' in my nature reign'd
All frailties, that befiege all kinds of blood,
That it could fo prepofterously be ftain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy fum of good:
For nothing this wide univerfe I call,
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all..

Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there;
And made myself a motly to thy view;

Gor'd mine own thoughts, fold cheap what is moft

dear;

Made old offences of affections new.

Moft true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Afkance and ftrangely: but by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worft affays prov'd thee my best of love,
Now all is done, have what shall have no end,
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the beft,
Even to thy pure and moft most loving breast,

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