Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic foul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipfe endured, And the fad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves affured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, fpite of him, I'll live in this poor rime, While he infults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent
What's in the brain, that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what new to register, That may exprefs my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, fweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very fame; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the duft and injury of age, Nor gives to neceffary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
O, never say that I was false of heart, Though abfence feem'd my flame to qualify. As eafy might I from myself depart
As from my foul, which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again;
Juft to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my ftain. Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could fo prepofterously be ftain'd, To leave for nothing all thy fum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rofe; in it thou art my all.
Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, fold cheap what is most
Made old offences of affections new;
Moft true it is that I have look'd on truth
Afkance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse effays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
my fake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is fubdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand : Pity me then and wish I were renew'd; Whilft, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eifel, 'gainst my strong infection; No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I affure ye Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
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