The expence of fpirit in a waste of shame
Is luft in action; and till action, luft
Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to truft;
Enjoy'd no fooner, but defpiled straight;
Past reafon hunted; and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated, as a fwallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in purfuit, and in poffeffion fo;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A blifs in proof,-and prov'd, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream :
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
'To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If fnow be white, why then her breafts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have feen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no fuch rofes fee I in her cheeks;
And in fome perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her fpeak,-yet well I know
That mufic hath a far more pleasing found;
I grant I never faw a goddess go,-
My mistress, when the walks, treads on the
ground;
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any the bely'd with falfe compare.
Thou art as tyranneus, fo as thou art,
As those whofe beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'ft to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, fome fay that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To fay they err, I dare not be fo bold,
Although I fwear it to myfelf alone.
And, to be fure that is not falfe I fwear,
A thoufand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is faireft in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black, fave in thy deeds,
And thence this flander, as I think, proceeds.
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart, torment me with dildain;
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning fun of heaven
Better becomes the grey checks of the caft,
Nor that full ftar that ufhers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the fober weft,
As thole two mourning eyes become thy face:
O let it then as well befeem thy heart
To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fuit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I wear beauty herfelf is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
CXXXIII. Befhrew that heart that makes my heart to gra For that deep wound it gives my friend and ma Is 't not enough to torture me alone, But flave to flavery, my sweetest friend mul Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next felf thou harder haft engross'd; Of him, myself, and thee, I am forfaken; And torment thrice threefold thus to be crobi'¿ Prifon my heart in thy steel bofom ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor her bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol: And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in the Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
So now I have confefs'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd in thy will;
Myfelf Ill forfeit, fo that other nine
Thou wilt reftore, to be my comfort ftill:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learn'd but, furety-like, to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statue of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou ufurer that put'ft forth all to use,
And fue a friend, came debtor for my fake;
So him I loofe through my unkind abuse.
Him have I loft; thou hast both him and m
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
Whoever hath her wish, thou haft thy will,
And will to boot, and will in overplus:
More than enough am I that vex thee fill,
To thy fweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whofe will is large and fpacions,
Not once vouchfafe to hide my will in thine!
Shall will in others feem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance thine?
The fea, all water, yet receives rain ftill,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will
One will of mine, to make thy large will nat
Let no unkind, no fair befeechers kill;
Think of all but one, and me in that one a
If thy foul check thee that I come fo near,
Swear by thy blind foul that I was thy will
And will, thy foul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far far for love, my love-fuit, fweet, fu
Will will fulfil the treature of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with cafe we prest;
Among a number one is reckon'd none.
Then in the number let me país untold,
Though in thy ftores' account I one muâ be;
For nothing hold me, fo it please thee bad
That nothing mc, a fomething sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love the
And then the lov'ft me,-for मण
Thou blind fool, Love, what doft thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and fee not what they fee?
They know what beauty is, fee where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood haft thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is ty'd?
Why should my heart think that a feveral plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's com-
mon place?
Or mine eyes feeing this, fay this is not?
To put fair truth upon fo fool a face?
[err'd, In things right true my heart and eyes have And to this falfe plague are they now transferr'd.
When my love fwears that fhe is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know the lies;
That she might think me fome untutor'd youth,
Unlearn'd in the world's falfe fubtilties.
Thus vainly thinking that the thinks me young,
Although the knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her falfe-speaking tongue;
On both fides thus is fimple truth fuppreft.
But wherefore fays fhe not, the is unjuft?
And wherefore fay not 1, that I am old?
O love's best habit is in feeming truft,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and the with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
O call not me to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindnefs lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy
Ufe power with power, and flay me not by art.
Fell me thou lov'ft elsewhere; but in my fight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye afide.
What need'ft thou wound with cunning, when
thy might
Is more than my o'erprefs'd defence can 'bide?
Let me excufe thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;
And therefore from my face fhe turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not fo; but fince I am near flain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain,
Be wife as thou art cruel; do not prefs
My tongue ty'd patience with too much difdain;
Left forrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me fo;
(As tefty fick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their phyficians
For, if I fhould defpair, I fhould grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wrestling world is grown fo bad,
Mad flanders by mad cars believed be,
That I may not be fo, nor thou bely'd, Bear thine eyes ftraight, though thy proud heart go wide.
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thoufand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they defpife,
Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote.
Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to bafe touches prone,
Nor tafte nor fmell, defire to be invited
To any fenfual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits, nor my five fenfes can
Diffuade one foolish heart from ferving thee,
Who leaves unfway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's flave and vaffal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That the that makes me fin, awards me pain.
Love is my fin, and my dear virtue hate,
Hate of my fin, grounded on finful loving:
O but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or if it do, not from thofe lips of thine,
That have prophan'd their fearlet ornaments,
And feal'd falfe bonds of love as oft as mine;
Robb'd others' beds revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'ft those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Thy pity may deferve to pity'd be.
If thou doft feek to have what thou doft hide,
By felf-example may'st thou be deny'd!
Lo as a careful houfe-wife runs to catch
One of her feather'd crcatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all fwift difpatch
In purfuit of the thing fhe would have ftay;
Whilft her neglected child holds her in chace,
Cries to catch her whofe bufy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's difcontent;
So run'ft thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chace thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kifs me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou may'ft have thy will,
If thou turn back, and my loud crying ftill.
Two loves I have of comfort and defpair,
Which like two fpirits do fuggeft me ftill;
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worfer fpirit a woman, colour'd ill.
To win me foon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my faint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fool pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Sufpect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel is another's hell.
Yet this fhall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the found that faid, I bate,
To me that languish'd for her fake;
But when the faw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet
Was us'd in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus a-new to greet:
I bate the alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
1 bate from hate away fhe threw,
And fav'd my life, faying—not you.
Poor foul, the centre of my finful earth,
Fool'd by thofe rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and fuffer dearth,
Painting the outward walls fo coftly gay?
Why fo large coft, having fo fhort a leafe,
Doft thou upon thy fading manfion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excefs,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in feiling hours of drofs;
Within be fed, without be rich no more :
So fhalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And, death once dead, there's no more dying then.
My love is as a fever, longing ftill
For that which longer nurfeth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preferve the ill,
The uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reafon the phyfician to my love,
Angry that his preferiptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I defperate now approve,
Defire is death, which phyfic did except.
Paft cure I am, now reafon is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unreft;
My thoughts and my difcourfe as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly exprefs'd;
For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correfpondence with true fight?
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That cenfures falfely what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my falfe eyes dote,
What means the world to fay it is not fo?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not fo true as all men's: no,
How can it? Q how can Love's eye be true,
That is fo vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though I mitlake my view;
The fun itfelf fees not, till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep in blind;
Left eyes well seeing thy foul faults fhould £
Canft thou, O cruel! fay I love thee not,
When I, against myself, with thee partake!
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy fake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou low'rst on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with prefent moan?
What merit do I in myself refpect,
That is fo proud thy fervice to defpife,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy miv
Thofe that can fee thou lov'ft, and I am blist.
O from what power hast thou this powerful nig
With infufficiency my heart to fway?
To make me give the lie to my true fight,
And fwear that brightnefs doth not grace the day
Whence haft thou this becoming of things,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantife of firi,
That in my mind, thy worst all beft exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love the ne
The more I hear and fee juft caufe of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou should'st not abhor my fat;
If thy unworthinefs rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
Love is too young to know what confcients s
Yet who knows not, confcience is born of
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amils,
Left guilty of my faults thy fweet felf prove,
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my grofs body's treafon;
My foul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh ftays no farther real
But rifing at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pi
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy fide.
No want of confcience hold it that I call
Her love, for whofe dear love I rife and fi
In loving thee thou know'ft I am forefworn,
But thou art twice forefworn to me love fward)
In ad thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing,
But why of two oaths' breach do I accufe the,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd mol;
For all my vows are oaths but to mifule thee,
And all my honeft faith in thee is loft:
For I have fworn deep oaths of thy deep kinds
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy confiancy;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindrs,
Or made them fwear against the thing they 1
For I have fworn thee fair: more perjur'd I, To fwear, against the truth, so foul a lie!
Cupid lay'd by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love
A dateless lively heat, ftill to endure,
And grew a feething bath which yet men prove,
Against ftrange maladies a fovereign cure.
But at my miftreis' eye love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
1 fick withal, the help of bath defired,
And thither hied, a fad diftemper'd gueft,
But found no cure; the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
The little love-god lying once afleep,
Laid by his fide his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilft many nymphs that vow'd chafte life to keep,
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The faireit votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And fo the general of hot defire
Was fleeping by a virgin hand difarm'd.
This brand the quenched in a cool well by,
Which from love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men difeas'd; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
DID not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainft whom the world cannot hold argument,
Perfuade my heart to this falfe perjury?
Vows for thee broke deferve not punishment.
A woman 1 forefwore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I foreswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gain'd, cures all difgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then thou fair fun, which on my earth doft shine,
Exhal'ft this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not fo wife
To break an oath, to win a paradise ?
Sweet Cytherea, fitting by a brook,
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him ftories to delight his ear;
She fhew'd him favours to allure his eye;
To win his heart, fhe touch'd him here and there:
Touches fo foft ftill conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figur'd proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But fmile and jeft at every gentle offer:
Then fell the on her back, fair queen, and to-
ward;
He rofe and ran away; ah fool too froward!
Allignorant that foul that fees thee without worde Which is to me fome praise, that I thy parts admire Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice ba dreadful thunder,
Which (not to anger bent) is mufic and fweet fire Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrang To fing the heavens' praise with such an tarti ly tongue.
Scarce had the fun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for that,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made,
Under an ofier growing by a brook,
A brook, where Adon us'd to cool his fples.
Hot was the day; fhe hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brig
The fun look'd on the world with glorious eje
Yet not fo wiftly, as this queen on him:
He spying her, bounc'd in, whereas he floo
Oh Jove, quoth fhe, why was not I a flood:
Fair is my love, but not fo fair as fickle,
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brattle,
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rufty:
A little pale, with damafk dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor one falfer to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd,
Between each kifs her oaths of true love fwearing
How many tales to please me hath the coin'd,
Dreading my love, the lofs whereof ftill fearing
Yet in the midft of all her pure proteiings
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all w
She burnt with love, as ftraw with fire flameth She burnt with love, as foon as straw out burne She fram'd the love, and yet the foil'd the tra ing,
She bade love laft, and yet she fell a turning, Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
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