Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.
That time of year thou may'ft in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs, which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd quires, where late the fweet birds fang.
In me thou feeft the twilights of fuch day,
As after fun-fet fadeth in the weft;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond felf that feals up all in reft.
In me thou fee'ft the glowing of fuch fire,
That on the afhes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confum'd with that which it was nourifh'd by.
"Tis thou perceiv'ft, which makes thy love more
strong
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Thy glafs will fhew thee how thy beauties wear:
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'ft thou taste.
The wrinkles, which thy glafs will truly fhow,
Of mouthed graves will give the memory:
Thou by thy dial's fhady ftealth may'st know
Time's thievifh progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to thefe wafte blacks, and thou fhalt find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
Thefe offices, fo oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy book.
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetick foul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the leafe of my true love controul,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the fad augurs mock their own prefage:
Incertainties now crown themselves affur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this moft balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me fubfcribes ;
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhime,
While he infults o'er dull and fpeechlefs tribes.
And thou in this fhalt find thy monument,
When tyrants crefts and tombs of brass are spent.
What's in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true fpirit?
What's new to fpeak, what now to regifter,
That may exprefs my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, fweet love! but yet like prayers divine,
I muft each day fay o'er the very fame;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
E'en as when firft I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love, in love's fresh cafe,"
Weighs not the duft and injuries of age,
Nor gives to neceffary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page:
Finding the firft conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would fhew it dead.
Love is too young to know what confcience is,
Yet who knows not confcience is born of love?
Then gentle cheater urge not my amifs,
Left guilty of my faults thy fweet felf prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my grofs body's treason;
My foul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reafon :
But rifing at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize; proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To ftand in the a
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetick foul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the leafe of my true love controul,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the fad augurs mock their own prefage:
Incertainties now crown themselves affur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Then gentle cheater urge not my amifs,
Left guilty of my faults thy fweet, felf prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my grofs body's treason;
My foul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason :
But rifing at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize; proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To ftand in thy affairs, fall by thy fide.
No want of confcience hold it, that I call
Her love, for whofe dear love I rife and fall.
In loving thee, thou know'ft I am forfworn,
But thou art twice forfworn to me love fwearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths breach do I accufe thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd moft;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee;
And all my
honeft faith in thee is loft.
For I have fworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness;
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy conftancy;
And to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness;
Or made them fwear against the thing they fee.
For I have fworn thee fair; more perjur'd I,
To fwear against the truth fo foul a lye.
The Tale of Cephalus and Procris.
Beneath Hymettus' hill, well cloth'd with flowers,
A holy well her foft fprings gently pours:
Where ftands a cops, in which the wood-nymphs
shrove,
(No wood) it rather feems a flender grove.
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