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Love's Lofs.

Sweet rofe, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, foon faded,
Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the fpring:
Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely fhaded,
Fair creature kill'd too foon by death's fharp fting:
Like a green plumb, that hangs upon a tree,
And falls (thro' wind) before the fall fhould be,

I weep for thee, and yet no caufe I have,
For why? Thou lefts me nothing in thy will;
And yet thou lefts me more than I did crave:
For why? I craved nothing of thee still:

O yes (dear friend) I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me,

Love's Relief.

"thakspeare always by metaphins and figures

involves in

the thing considered

Full many a glorious morning have I feen,
Flatter the mountain tops with fovereign eye,
Kiffing with golden face the meadows green;
Gilding pale ftreams with heavenly alchymy;
Anon permit the baseft clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unfeen to weft with this difgrace.
Even fo my fun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant fplendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit difdaineth;
Suns of the world may ftain, when heaven's fun he mingles
[ftaineth. Lauth, Ho

Why didft thou promife fuch a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloke,

a uninux.

Thash and possibles exferences

and air A mil

gin. time that diguity

to everything, and at the same he inspires human pelings, adds a in his images to human native itself "

To let bafe clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that thro' the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face;
For no man well of fuch a falve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the difgrace:
Nor can thy fhame give phyfick to my grief,
Tho' thou repent, yet I have ftill the cross;
Th' offender's forrow lends but weak relief
To him, that beareth ftrong offences cross.

Ah! but thofe tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ranfom all ill deeds.

No more be griev'd at that which thou haft done,
Rofes have thorns, and filver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipfes ftain both moon and fun,
And loathfome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trefpafs with compare,
Myfelf corrupting, falving thy amifs,
Excufing their fins more than their fins are:
For to my fenfual fault I bring incenfe,
Thy adverfe party is thy advocate;
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence,
Such civil war is in my love and hate,

That I an acceffary needs must be

To that fweet thief which forely robs from me.


Let me confefs, that we two must be twain,
Altho' our undivided loves are one:

So fhall those blots, that do with me remain
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.

In our two loves there is but one refpect,
Tho' in our lives a feparable spite;
Which tho' it alter not love's fole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Left my bewailed guilt fhould do thee fhame,
Nor thou with publick kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name.
But do not fo, I love thee in fuch fort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

As a decrepit father takes delight
To fee his active child do deeds of youth;
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Intitled in their parts, do crowned fit,
I make my love ingrafted to this store :
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilft that this fhadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am fuffic'd,

And by a part of all thy glory live:

Look what is beft, that beft I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.

Loth to depart.

Good night, good reft; ah! neither be my fhare:
She bad good night, that kept my reft away;
And daft me to a cabben hang'd with care,
To defcant on the doubts of my decay.

Farewel (quoth fhe) and come again to-morrow;
Fare well I could not, for I fupt with forrow.

Yet at my parting fweetly did fhe smile,
In fcorn, or friendship, nill I confter whether:
It may be the joy'd to jeft at my exile;

It may

be again to make me wander thither. Wander (a word) for fhadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rife
Doth cite each moving fenfe from idle reft,
Not daring truft the office of mine eyes.

While Philomela fits and fings, I fit and mark,,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.

For fhe doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night:
The night fo packt, I poft unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wifhed fight;
Sorrow chang'd to folace, and folace mixt with

For why? fhe figh'd, and bad me come to-morrow.

Were I with her, the night would poft too foon,
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To fpite me now, each minute feems an hour,
Yet not for me, fhine fun to fuccour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now

Short night, tonight, and length thyself to-morrow.

A Mafter-Piece.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steel'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart:

My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perfpective it is beft painter's art.
For thro' the painter muft you fee his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bofom's fhop is hanging ftill,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes..
Now fee what good turns eyes for eyes have done;
Mine eyes have drawn thy fhape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breaft, where thro' the fun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they fee, know not the heart.

Happiness in Content.

Let thofe who are in favour with their ftars,
Of publick honour and proud titles boast:
Whilft I, whom fortune of fuch triumph bars,
Unlook'd-for joy in that I honour moft.
Great princes favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the fun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoufed for worth,
After a thousand victories, once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the reft forgot, for which he toil'd.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

A Dutiful Meffage.

Lord of my love, to whom in vaffalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

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