XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famifh'd for a look,

Or heart in love with fighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,

And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,

Thyself away art present still with me;

For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am ftill with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight

D

XLVIII.

How careful was I, when I took my way,

Each trifle under trueft bars to thrust,

That to my use it might unused stay

From hands of falsehood, in fure wards of trust
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,

Moft worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any cheft,

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,

From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,

For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX.

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath caft his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advised respects;

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that fun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reafons find of fettled gravity;
Against that time do I enfconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,

To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,

Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,

When what I feek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,

As if by fome instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody fpur cannot provoke him on
That fometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan
More sharp to me than spurring to his fide;
For that fame groan doth put this in my
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

mind:

LI.

Thus can my love excuse the flow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.

O, what excufe will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but flow?
Then should I fpur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion fhall I know:
Then can no horfe with my defire keep pace;
Therefore defire, of perfect'ft love being made,
Shall neigh, no dull flesh in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus fhall excuse my jade,—

'Since from thee going he went wilful-flow,

Towards thee I'll run and give him leave to go.'