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A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted b
With fhifting change, as is falfe womens fashion.
An eye more bright than theirs, lefs falfe in rolling:
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth.
A man in hue all hue in his controuling,
Which steals mens eyes, and womens fouls amazeth:
And for a woman wer't thou firft created.
Till nature, as the wrought thee, fell a doating,
And by addition me of thee defeated;
By adding one thing, to my purpose nothing.
But fince the prick'd thee out for womens pleasure, Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.
Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed,
The dear repofe for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired.
For then my thoughts (far from where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darkness, which the blind do fee.
Save that my foul's imaginary fight
Prefents their fhadow to my fightless view;
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghaftly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet find.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debar'd the benefit of reft?
When day's oppreffion is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day oppreft?
And each (tho' enemies to other's reign)
Do in confent fhake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain,
How far I toil, ftill farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
And doft him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the fwart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling ftars tweer out, thou gild❜ft th' even.
But day doth daily draw my forrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length feem
When in difgrace with fortune and mens eyes
I all alone beweep my out-caft state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curfe my fate:
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends poffeft;
Defiring this man's art, and that man's fcope,
With what I most enjoy contented least.
Yet in these thoughts, myself almoft defpifing,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark, at break of day arifing
From fullen earth, to fing at heaven's gate.
For thy fweet love rememb'red, fuch wealth brings,
That then I fcorn to change my ftate with kings.
Scarce had the fun dry'd up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for fhade;
When Cytherea (all in love forlorn)
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an offer growing by a brook;
A brook, where Adon us'd to cool his fpleen.
Hot was the day, fhe hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often here had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood ftark naked on the brook's green brim:
The fun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not fo whiftly, as this queen on him:
He fpying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
O! Jove! (quoth fhe) why was not I a flood?
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trufty;
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty :
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her
None fairer, nor none falfer to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kifs her oaths of true love fwearing?
How many tales to pleafe me hath fhe coined,
Dreading my love, the lofs thereof ftill fearing?
Yet in the midst of all her pure proteftings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were
She burnt with love, as ftraw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as foon as ftraw out burning;
She fram'd the love, and yet fhe foil'd the framing;
She bad love laft, and yet fhe fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad at the beft, tho' excellent in neither.
The Benefit of Friendship.
When to the feflions of fweet filent thought,
I fummon up remembrance of things paft,
I figh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's wafte.
Then can I drown an eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's datelefs night,
And weep afrefh love's long fince cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expence of many a vanish'd fight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All loffes are reftor'd, and forrows end.
Thy bofom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have fuppofed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obfequious tear
Hath dear religious love ftol'n from mine eye,
As intereft of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone;
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) haft all the all of me.
If thou furvive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with duft fhall
And fhalt by fortune once more re-furvey
Thefe poor rude lines of thy deceafed lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And tho' they be out-ftript by every pen,
Referve them for my love, not for their rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier men,
Oh then vouchfafe me but this loving thought!
Had my friend's mufe grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this, his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But fince he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their ftile I'll read, his for his love.
If mufick and fweet poetry agree,
As they must needs (the fifter and the brother)
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'ft the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whofe heavenly touch
Upon the lute, doth ravifh human fenfe:
Spencer to me, whofe deep conceit is fuch,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'ft to hear the fweet melodious found,
That Phoebus' lute (the queen of mufick) makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to finging he betakes.
One God is God of both (as poets fain)
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain,
Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love, Paler for forrow than her milk-white dove,