XIII.

O, that you were yourself! but, love,
you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So fhould that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were

Yourself again, after yourself's decease,

When your sweet iffue your fweet form should bear.
Who lets fo fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gufts of winter's day

And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know You had a father: let your fon say so.

XIV.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or feasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or fay with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find.

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read fuch art

As Truth and beauty fhall together thrive,

If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert ;'

Or elfe of thee this I prognofticate:

'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.'

XV.

When I confider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage prefenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in fecret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful fap, at height decrease, | And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconftant stay Sets you moft rich in youth before my fight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to fullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rime ?
Now ftand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens, yet unfet,

With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers
Much liker than your painted counterfeit :

So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, 'Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still;
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides life and shows not half your parts.

your

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be fcorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique fong:

But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rime.