XXIV.

Not marble, not the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But

you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn

The living record of your memory.

'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room,

Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

3

PART SECOND.

EP. I.]

XXV.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If time have any wrinkle graven there ;
If any, be a satire to decay,

And make Time's spoils despisèd everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ;
So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.

XXVI.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour with his colour fix'd,
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay ;

But best is best, if never intermix'd ?'.
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for it lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be praised of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

XXVII.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming ;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;

As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,

And stops his pipe in growth of riper days : Not that the summer is less pleasant now

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough,

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.

XXVIII.

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 no more can write !
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject 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 verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

XXIX.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen,

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 pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived, For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.