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Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd; if not, lives in difgrace.
Therefore my miftrefs' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners feem,
At fuch who not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a falfe esteem:

Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue fays beauty fhould look fo.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red;

If fnow be white, why then her breafts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have feen roses, damask, red, and white;
But no fuch roses fee I in her cheeks:
And in fome perfumes there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from
my miftrefs reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That mufick hath a far more pleafing found:

I grant I never faw a goddefs go;

My miftrefs, when fhe walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any the, bely'd with falfe compare.

Thou art tyrannous, fo thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel:
For well thou know'ft to my dear doating heart,
Thou art the faireft, and moft precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To fay they err, I dare not be fo bold,
Altho' I fwear it to myself alone.

And to be fure that is not falfe I fwear;

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

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One on another's neck do witnefs bear:
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black, fave in thy deeds,
And thence this flander, as I think, proceeds.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with difdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning-fun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east;
Nor that full ftar that ufhers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the fober weft,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
Oh! let it then as well befeem thy heart

To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fute thy pity like in every part.

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Then will I fwear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complection lack.

Unkind Abufe.

Befhrew that heart that makes my

heart to groan,

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me;
Is't not enough to torture me alone,

But flave to flavery my sweetest friend muft be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next felf thou harder haft engrofs'd;
Of him, myself, and thee I am forfaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy fteel bofom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then ufe rigour in my jail.

And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

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So now I have confest that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will;
Myfelf I'll forfeit, fo that other mine
Thou wilt restore to me, my comfort ftill.
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;

He learn'd, but furety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as faft doth bind.
The ftatute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou ufurer, that put'ft forth all to ufe;
And fue a friend, came debtor for my fake,
So him I lose thro' my unkind abuse.

Him have I loft, thou haft both him and me;
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.

Love-Suit.

Whoever hath her wifh, thou haft thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee ftill,
To thy fweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whofe will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchfafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others feem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance fhine?
The fea all water, yet receives rain ftill,
And in abundance addeth to his ftore;
So thou being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair befeechers kill,
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

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If thy foul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind foul that I was thy Will;
And will, thy foul knows, is admitted there
Thus far for love, my love-fuit fweet fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
I fill it full with wills, and my will one:
In things of great receipt with ease we prove,
Among a number one is reckon'd none.
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Tho' in thy ftore's account I one must be:
For nothing hold me, fo it please thee hold
That nothing me, a fomething fweet to thee.
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'ft me, for my name is Will.

His Heart wounded by her Eye.

Thou blind fool, love, what doft thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and fee not what they see?
They know what beauty is, fee where it lies;
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride;
Why of eyes falfhood haft thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is ty'd?
Why fhould my heart think that a feveral plot,
Which my
heart knows the wide world's common
Or mine eyes feeing this, fay this is not [place?
To put fair truth upon fo foul a face;

In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,
And to this falfe plague are they now transferr'd.

O! call not me to justify the wrong,

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart ;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and flay me not by art:
Tell me thou lov'ft elsewhere; but in my fight,
Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye afide;
What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy
Is more than my o'er-preft defence can bide? [might
Let me excufe thee; ah! my love well knows,
Her pretty looks have been my enemies,
And therefore from my face fhe turns my foes.
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries.
Yet do not fo, but fince I am near flain,

Kill me out-right with looks, and rid my pain.

Be wife as thou art cruel, do not prefs
My tongue-ty'd patience with too much difdain:
Left forrow lend me words, and words exprefs
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Tho' not to love, yet love to tell me fo:
As tefty fick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should defpair, I fhould grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wrefting world is grown so bad,
Mad flanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be fo, nor thou bely'd,
Bear thine eyes ftrait, tho' thy proud heart go wide.

A Proteftation.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thoufand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleas'd to doat.

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