XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dreff'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any fummer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, 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 these did play.

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide :

[fmells,

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy fweet that

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 groffly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair ;
The roses 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 robbery 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 sweet or colour it had ftol'n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on fome worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Mufe, and ftraight redeem
In gentle numbers time fo idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rife, refty Mufe, my love's sweet face furvey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a fatire to decay,

And make Time's fpoils defpifed every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI.

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 doft thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Mufe: wilt thou not haply say,
'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 praise, wilt thou be dumb ?
Excule not filence fo; for 't 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 feem long hence as he shows now.

CII.

My love is ftrengthen'd, though more weak in seem-
I love not lefs, though less the show appear: [ing;
That love is merchandized 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 with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth fing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the fummer is less pleasant now

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild mufic burthens 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.