Against that time, when thou fhalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that fun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reafons find of fettled gravity,
Against that time do I enfconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own defert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part :

To leave poor me thou haft the strength of laws,
Since, why to love, I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I feek,-my weary travel's end,-
Doth teach that eafe and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!
The beaft that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by fome instinct 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 fharp 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.

LI.

Thus can my love excuse 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.

O, what excufe will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can feem but flow?
Then fhould I fpur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged fpeed no motion fhall I know;

Then can no horfe with my defire keep pace;
Therefore defire, of perfect love being made,
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus fhall excuse my jade;

Since from thee going he went wilful flow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

LII.

So am I as the rich, whofe bleffed key
Can bring him to his fweet up-locked treasure, -
The which he will not every hour furvey,
For blunting the fine point of feldom pleasure.
Therefore are feafts fo folemn and fo rare,
Since feldom coming, in the long year fet,
Like ftones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

So is the time that keeps you, as my cheft,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make fome special instant special-bleft,
By new unfolding his imprifon'd pride.

Bieffed are you, whofe worthinefs gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

LIII.

What is your fubftance, whereof are you made,
That millions of frange fhadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every fhadow lend.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;

On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new :
Speak of the spring, and foizon of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty shew,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every bleffed shape we know.

In all external grace you have fome part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV.

O how much more doth beauty beauteous feem,
By that fweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rofe looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on fuch thorns, and play as wantonly
When fummer's breath their masked bads difcloses:
But, for their virtue only is their shew,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not fo;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And fo of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, fhall out-live this powerful rhime;
But you fhall fhine more bright in these contents
Than unfwept ftone, befmear'd with fluttish time,
When wasteful war fhall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Marfis fword 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 hall still find
Even in the eyes of all pofterity
[room
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.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,
Thy edge fhould blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow fharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fullness
To-morrow fee again, and do not kill
The fpirit of love with a perpetual dulnefs.
Let this fad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the fhore, where two contracted-w
Come daily to the banks, that, when they fee
Return of love, more bleft may be the view:
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes fummer's welcome thrice more
with

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilft I, my fovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of abfence four,
When you have bid your fervant once adieu;
Nor dare I queftion with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs fuppofe,
But, like a fad slave, stay and think of nought,
Save, where you are how happy you make those :
So true a fool is love, that in your will
(Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I fhould in thought control your times of pleafure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
Oh let me fuffer (being at your beck)
The imprison'd absence of your liberty,
And patience, tame to fufferance, bide each check
Without accufing you of injury.

Be where you lift; your charter is fo ftrong,
That you yourself may privilege your time :
Do what you will, to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of felf-doing crime,

I am to wait, though waiting fo be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that, which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which labouring for invention bear amifs
The fecond burthen of a former child?

O that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the fun,
Shew me your image in fome antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might fee what the old world could fay
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the fame.

O! fure I am, the wits of former days

To fubjects worfe have given admiring praife.

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes haften to their end;

Is it thy fpirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;
To find out fhames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenour of thy jealousy?
O no thy love, though much, is not fo great;
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my reft defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy fake: [where,
For thee watch I, whilft thou doft wake elle
From me far off, with others all-too-near.

LXII.

Sin of felf-love poffeffeth all mine eye,
And all my foul, and all my every part;
And for this fin there is no remedy,
It is fo grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face fo gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of fuch account,
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths furmount.
But when my glafs fhews me myself indeed,
'Bated and chopp'd with tan'd antiquity,
Mine own felf-love quite contrary 1 read,
Self fo felf-loving were iniquity.

"Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII.

Against my love fhall be, as I am now,

With time's injurious hand cruth'd and o'erworn; When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his

brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's fleepy night;
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of fight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For fuch a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he fhall never cut from memory
My fweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.
His beauty fhall in thefe black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them ftill green.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd

In fequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipfes 'gainst his glory fight,

And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the raritics of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet, to times in hope, my verfe fhall
ftand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXI.

Is it thy will, thy image fhould keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Doft thou defire my flumbers fhould be broken,
While fhadowe, like to thee, do mock my sight?

When fometime lofty towers I fee down-raz'd,
And brafs eternal flave to mortal rage;
When I have feen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the fhore,
And the firm foil win of the watry main,
Increasing ftore with lofs, and lofs with store;
When I have feen fuch interchange of state,
Or ftate itfelf confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choofe
But weep to have that which it fears to lofe.

LXV.

Since brass, nor ftone, nor earth, nor boundless fea,
But fad mortality o'er fways their power,
How with this rage fhall beauty hold a plea,
Whofe action is no stronger than a flower?

O how fhall fummer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful fiege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not fo ftout,
Nor gates of fteel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack!

Shall time's beft jewels from time's cheft lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his fpoil of beauty can forbid ?

O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may ftill fhine bright.

LXVI.

Tir'd with all thefe, for reftful death I cry,-
As, to behold defert, a beggar born,
And needy nothing trim'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forfworn,
And gilded honour fhamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely ftrumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully difgrac'd,
And ftrength by limping fway disabled,
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controling skill,
And fimple truth mifcall'd fimplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:
Tir'd with all thefe, fromt hefe would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII.

Ah! wherefore with infection fhould he live,
And with his prefence grace impiety,
That fin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itfelf with his fociety?
Why fhould falfe painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead feeing of his living hue?
Why fhould poor beauty indirectly feek
Rofes of fhadow, fince his rofe is true?
Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ?
For the hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O, him fhe ftores, to fhew what wealth fhe had,
In days long fince, before these last so bad.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were borne,
Or durft inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden treffes of the dead,
The right of fepulchres, were fhorn away,
To live a fecond life on fecond head,
E'er beauty's dead fleece made another gay;
In him thofe holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no fummer of another's green,
Robbing no old to drefs his beauty new;

And him as for a map doth nature store,
To fhew falfe art what beauty was of yore.

Uttering bare truth, even fo as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praife is crown'd;
But those fame tongues that give thee fo thine
In other accents do this praise confound, [own,
By feeing farther than the eye hath fhewn.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guefs, they measure by thy deeds;
Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes
were kind,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds;
But why thy odour matcheth not thy fhew,
The folve is this, that thou dost common
grow.

LXX.

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For flander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is fufpect,
A crow that flies in heaven's fweeteft air.
So thou be good, flander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou prefent'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou haft pafs'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be fo thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:

If fome fufpect of ill mask'd not thy shew,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldi

owe.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the furly fullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vileft worms to dwel:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you fo,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woc.
O if (I say) you lock upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearic;
But let your love even with my life decay:
Left the wife world fhould look into you

moan,

And mock you with me after I am gore.

LXXII.

O, left the world should task you to recite
What merit liv'd in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devife fome virtuous he,
To do more for me than mine own defert,
And hang more praise upon deceased 1,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart :
O, left your true love may feem falfe in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to fhame nor me nor you.

For I am fham'd by that which I bring forth And fo fhould you, to love things Bet worth.

LXXIII.

That time of year you may'ft in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the fweet birds
In me thou feest the twilight of fuch day, [fang.
As after fun-fet fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond felf, that feals up all in reft.

In me thou feet the glowing of fuch fire,
That on the afhes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'ft, which makes thy love more
ftrong,

[long.

To love that well which thou must leave e'er

LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail fhall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial ftill with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee.

The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My fpirit is thine, the better part of me :
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead ;
The coward conqueft of a wretch's knife,
Too bafe of thee to be remembred.

The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as fweet seafon'd fhowers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold fuch ftrife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting beft to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may fee my pleasure:
sometime, all full with feafting on your fight,
And by and by clean ftarved for a look;
Poffeffing or pursuing no delight,

ave what is had or must from you be took,
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride? o far from variation or quick change? Why, with the time, do I not glance afide o new-found methods and to compounds ftrange? hy write I ftill all one, ever the fame, nd keep invention in a noted weed, hat every word doth almoft tell my name, hewing their birth, and where they did proceed? know, sweet love, I always write of you, nd you and love are ftill my argument; all my beft is dreffing old words new, bending again what is already fpent: For as the fun is daily new and old, So is my love ftill telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will fhew thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'st thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly shew,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's fhady ftealth may'st know
Time's thievifh progrefs to eternity.

Look, what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to thefe wafte blanks, and thou fhalt find
Thofe children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

Thefe offices, fo foft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII.

So oft have I invok'd thee for my mufe,
And found fuch fair affiftance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poefy difperfe.

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whofe influence is thine, and born of thee.
In others' works thou dost but mend the ftile,
And arts with thy fweet graces graced be;

But thou art all my art, and doft advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIX.

Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,

My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick mufe doth give another place.
I grant, fweet love, thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robes thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he ftole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth
fay,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself doft pay.

LXXX.

O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better fp doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof fpends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty'd, fpeaking of your fame!
But fince your worth (wide, as the ocean is,)
The humble as the proudeft fail doth bear,
My faucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your fhalloweft help will hold me up afloat,
Whilft he upon your foundness deep doth ride;
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive, and I be caft away,
The worst was this ;-my love was my decay.

LXXXI.

Or I fhall live your epitaph to make,
Or you furvive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world muft die.
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument fhall be my gentle verfe,
Which eyes not yet created fhall o'er-read;
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You ftill fhall live (fuch virtue hath my pen,)
Where breath most breathes,-even in the
mouths of men,

LXXXII.

I grant thou wert not married to my mufe,
And therefore may'ft without attaint o'er-look
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, bleffing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher ftamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devif'd
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly fympathiz'd
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And their grofs painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd,

LXXXIII.

I never faw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting fet.
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I flept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might fhew
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This filence for my fin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV.

Who is it that fays moft? which can fay more,
Than this rich praise,-that you alone are you?
In whofe confine immured is the store
Which fhould example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his fubject lends not fome small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, fo dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worfe what nature made fo clear,
And fuch a counter-part fhall fame his wit,
Making his ftile admired every where.

You to your beauteous bleffings add a curfe, Being fond on praife, which makes your praises worle.

LXXXV.

My tongue-ty'd muse in manners holds her fill,
While comments of your praife, richly compu'd,
Referve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrafe by all the mufes fil'd.words,
I think good thoughts, whilft others write good
And, like unletter'd clerk, ftill cry Amen
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you prais'd, I say, 'tis fo, 'tis true,
And to the moft of praife add fomething more;
But that is in my thought, whofe love to you.
Though words come hind-m ft, holds his rank
before.

Then others for the breath of words refpe&,
Me for my dumb thoughts, fpeaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full fail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inheart,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his fpirit, by fpirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that ftruck me dead?
No neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my filence cannot boaft;
I was not fick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewel! thou art too dear for my poffeffing,
And like enough thou know'ft thy cftimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releating;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deferving!
The caufe of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And fo my patent back again is fwerving.
Thyfelf thou gav'ft, thy own worth then st
knowing,

Or me, to whom thou gav'ft it, elfe mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon mifprifion growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In fleep a king, but waking, no fuch matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be difpos'd to fet me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy fide against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forfworn.
With mine own weaknefs being bett acquaintIČ,
Upon thy part I can fet down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;
That thou, in lofing me, fhall win much gory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I fo belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wro