LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst 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 sweet birds fang.
In me thou fee'ft the twilight of fuch day
As after funset fadeth in the weft;

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in reft.
In me thou fee'ft the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more ftrong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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 spirit 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 conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.

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 sweet-season'd showers 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 best to be with you alone,

Then better'd that the world may fee my pleasure :
Sometime, all full with feasting on your fight,

And by and by clean starved for a look;
Poffeffing or pursuing no delight,

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

Why is

my

LXXVI.

verse so barren of new pride,

So far from variation or quick change?

Why with the time do I not glance afide

To new-found methods and to compounds strange? Why write I ftill all one, ever the same,

And keep invention in a noted weed,

That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?

O, know, fweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dreffing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent :

For as the fun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show 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 mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's fhady stealth mayst know
Time's thievifh progrefs to eternity.

Look, what thy memory cannot contain

Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

Thefe offices, so oft as thou wilt look,

Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.