XXXVIII. How can my Muse want subject to invent, Thine own sweet argument, too excellent O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me For who's fo dumb that cannot write to thee, And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth If my flight Mufe do please these curious days, XXXIX. O, how thy worth with manners may I fing, What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of fingle one, That by this feparation I may give That due to thee which thou deservest alone. O abfence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, XL. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; And Kill me with fpites; yet we must not be foes. XLI. Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,- XLII. That thou haft her, it is not all my grief, Thou doft love her, because thou know'ft I love her; And lofing her, my friend hath found that loss; |