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Even fo being full of your near cloying sweetness,
To bitter fauces did I frame my feeding;
And fick of welfare, found a kind of meekness,
To be difeas'd ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, t' anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults affured,
And brought to medicine a healthful ftate,
Which rank of goodnefs would by ill be cured.
But thence I learn, and find the leffon true,
Drugs poison him that fo fell fick of you.
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Diftill'd from limbecks foul as hell within?
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still lofing when I faw myself to win.
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilft it hath thought itself fo blessed never?
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever?
Oh! benefit of ill! now I find true,
That better is by evil ftill made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at firft, more ftrong, far greater.
So I return rebuke to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
A good Conftruction of his Love's Unkindness.
That you were once unkind befriends me now;
And for that forrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my tranfgreffion bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel,
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y' have pafs'd a hell of time;
And I a tyrant have no leifure taken,
To weigh how once I fuffer'd in your crime.
Oh! that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest fenfe, how hard true forrow hits,
And foon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble falve, which wounded bofoms fits!
But that your trefpafs now becomes a fee,
Mine ranfoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
Error in Opinion.
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be, receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure loft, which is fo deem'd,
Not by our feeling, but by others feeing.
For why fhould others falfe adulterate eyes
Give falutation to my fportive blood?
Or on my frailties, why are frailer spies;
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own;
I may be ftreight, tho' they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.
Upon the Receipt of a Table-Book from his Miftrefs.
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain,
Full character'd with a lafting memory,
Which fhall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the leaft, fo long as brain and hears
Have faculty by nature to fubfift;
Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be mist.
That poor retention could not fo much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me, was I bold
To truft thofe tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulnefs in me.
No, Time! thou fhalt not boast that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dreflings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou doft foift upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our defire,
Than think that we before have heard them told,
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the prefent nor the past;
For thy records, and what we fee doth lye,
Made more or lefs by thy continual haste.
This I do vow, and this fhall ever be ;
I will be true, defpite thy fcythe and thee.
dear love were but the child of state,, It might for fortune's baftard be un-father'd; As fubject to time's love, or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd, No, it was builded far from accident,
It fuffers not in fmiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretick,
Which works on leafes of fhort number'd hours,
But all alone ftands hugely politick,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with fhowers.
To this I witnefs call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.
An Intreaty for her Acceptance.
Where it ought to be, I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring;
Or laid great bafes for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining.
Have I not feen dwellers on form and favour,
Lofe all, and more, by paying too much rent
For compound fweet, foregoing fimple favour?
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent,
No, let me be obfequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with feconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence thou fuborn'd informer! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, ftands leaft in thy controul,
Upon her playing on the Virginals.
How oft when thou thy mufick, musick-play'st,
Upon that bleffed wood, whofe motion founds
With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The witty concord that mine ear confounds;
Do I envy thofe jacks that nimble leap,
To kifs the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilft my poor lips, which should that harveft reap,
At the wood's boldness, by thee blushing stand.
To be fo tickled they would change their state,
And fituation with thofe dancing chips,
O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks fo happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kifs.
Th' expence of spirit in a waste of fhame,
Is luft in action; and till action, luft
Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to truft;
Enjoy'd no fooner, but defpifed ftreight,
Past reason hunted, and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated as a fwallow'd bait,
On purpofe laid to make the taker mad.
Made in purfuit and in poffeflion so,
Had, having, and in queft, to have extreme,
A blifs in proof, and proud, and very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows, yet none knows well 'To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
In praife of her beauty, though black.
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name:
But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a baftard shame:
For fince each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's falfe borrow'd face,