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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have aftronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or fay, with princes if it fhall go well,
By ought predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And conftant ftars; in them I read fuch art,
As truth and beauty fhall together thrive,
If from thyself, to ftore thou would'ft convert :
Or elfe of thee this I prognofticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
When I confider, every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment;
That this huge ftage prefenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the ftars in fecret influence comment:
When I perceive, that men as plants increase,
Chear'd and check'd ev'n by the felf-fame fky:
Vaunt in their youthful fap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave ftate out of memory:
Then the conceit of this inconftant stay,
Sets you moft rich in youth before my fight,
Where wafteful 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 ingraft you new.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way,
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, time?
And fortify yourself, in your decay,
With means more bleffed than my
Now ftand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unfet,
With virtuous with would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit.
So fhould 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 yourfelf in eyes of men.
To give away yourfelf, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Who will believe my verfe, in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your moft high deferts?
Tho' yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb,
Which hides your life, and flows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces;
The age to come would fay this poet lyes,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.
So fhould my papers (yellow'd with their age)
Be fcorn'd, like old men of lefs truth than tongue;
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And ftretched metre of an antick fong.
But were fome child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new appearing fight,
Serving with looks his facred majefty;
And having climb'd the fteep-up heavenly hill,
Refembling ftrong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty ftill,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage.
But when from high-moft pitch, with weary care,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day;
The eyes ('fore duteous) now converted are
From his low track, and look another way.
So thou, thyfelf out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on dieft, unless thou get a fon.
Unthrifty loveliness, why doft thou spend
Upon thyfelf thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequeft gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, fhe lends to thofe are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why doft thou abuse
The bounteous largefs given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why doft thou use
So great a fum of fums, yet can'ft not live?
For having traffick with thyfelf alone,
Thou of thyfelf thy fweet felf doft deceive;
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit can'ft thou leave?
Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which used lives th' executor to be.
Thofe hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze, where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very fame,
And that unfair, which fairly doth excel.
For never-refting time leads fummer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with froft, and lufty leaves quite gone;
Beauty o'er-fnow'd, and barrennefs every where..
Then were not fummer's diftillation left
A liquid prifoner, pent in walls of glafs,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers diftill'd, tho' they with winter meet, Lose but their fhow, their fubftance ftill lives fweet.
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface i
In thee thy fummer, ere thou be distill'd,
Make sweet fome vial, treasure thou fome place
With beauty's treasure, e'er it be self-kill'd:
That ufe is not forbidden ufury,
Which happies thofe that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyfelf to breed another thee, n
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one:
Ten times thyfelf were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee;
Then what could death do, if thou fhould'ft depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not felf-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir.
An Invitation to Marriage.
Mufick to hear, why hear'ft thou mufick fadly?!
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov'ft thou that, which thou receiv'ft not gladly!
Or elfe receiv'ft with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned founds,
By unions married do offend thy ear,
They do but fweetly chide thee, who confounds
In fingleness the parts that thou fhould'st bear
Mark how one ftring, fweet hufband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Refembling fire and child, and happy mother,
Who all in one, one pleafing note do fing
Whofe fpeechlefs fong, being many, feeming one, Sings this to thee, thou fingle wilt prove none.
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,'
That thou confum'ft thyself in fingle life?
Ah! if thou iffue-lefs fhalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife:
The world will be thy widow, and ftill weep,
That thou no form of thee haft left behind;
When every private widow well may keep,
By childrens eyes, her husband's fhape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend,
Shifts but his place, for ftill the world enjoys it:
But beauty's wafte hath in the world an end,
And kept unus'd, the us'rer fo destroys it.
No love towards others in that bofom fits,
That on himself fuch murd'rous fhame commits.
For fhame! deny, that thou bear'ft love to any,
Who for thyfelf art fo unprovident ;
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'ft, is most evident:
For thou art fo poffefs'd with murd'rous hate,
That 'gainft thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,
Which to repair, fhould be thy chief defire.
O change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy prefence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove :
Make thee another felf, for love of me,
That beauty ftill may live in thine or thee,