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Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to bafe touches prone,
Nor tafte, nor fmell defire to be invited
To any fenfual feaft with thee alone:
But my five wits, nor my five fenfes can
Diffuade one foolish heart from serving thee's
Who leaves unfway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's flave and vaffal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That the that makes me fin, rewards my pain.

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Love is my fin, and my dear virtue, hate;
Hate of fin, grounded on a finful loving:
O! but with mine, compare thou thine own ftate,
And thou fhalt find it merits not reproving:
Or if it do, not from thofe lips of thine,
That have profan'd their fcarlet ornaments,
And feal'd falfe bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others beds revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful, I love thee, as thou lov'ft those,
Whom thine eyes woo, as mine importune thee;
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Thy pity may deferve to pity'd be.

If thou doft seek to have what thou doft hide,
By felf-example may'ft thou be deny'd!

An Allufion,

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away;
Sets down her babe, and makes all fwift difpatch,
In pursuit of the thing fhe would have stay:
Whilft her neglected child holds her in chace,
Cries to catch her, whofe bufy care is bent

To follow that which flies before her face;
Not prizing her poor infant's difcontent.
So run'ft thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilft I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind.
So will I pray, that thou may'st have thy Will,
If thou turn back, and my loud crying ftill.

Life and Death.

Thofe lips that love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the found that faid, I hate,
To me that languish'd for her fake:
But when the faw my woful ftate,
Strait in her heart did mercy come;
Chiding that tongue, that, ever sweet,
Was us'd in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus a-new to greet:
I hate, fhe alter'd with an end
That follow'd it, as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away.
I hate, from hate away fhe threw,
And fav'd my life, faying not you.

A Confideration of Death.

Poor foul! the center of my finful earth,
My finful earth these rebel powers that thee array,
Why doft thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls in coftly clay?
Why fo large coft, having fo fhort a leafe,
Doft thou upon thy faded manfion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs,
And let that pine to aggravate thy ftore;
Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.

So fhalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
Immoderate Paffion.

My love is as a fever, longing ftill
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preferve the ill,
Th' uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reafon, the phyfician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve;
Defire is death, which phyfick did except.
Paft cure I am, now reafon is past cure;
And frantick mad with evermore unreft,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmens are,
At random from the truth vainly exprefs'd.

For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Love's Powerful Subtlety.

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correfpondence with true fight!
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That cenfures falfly what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my falfe eyes doat,
What means the world to say it is not fo?

If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love's eye is not fo true as all mens. No,
How can it? O how can love's
eye be true,
That is fo vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, tho' I miftake my view;

The fun itself fees not, till Heaven clears,

O cunning love! with tears thou keep'ft me blind,

Left eyes well-feeing thy foul faults should find.

Can't thou, O cruel! fay I love thee not?
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
All of myself, all tyrant for thy fake?
Who hateft thou, that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'ft thou that I do fawn upon
Nay, if thou low'rft on me, do I not fpend
Revenge upon myfelf with prefent moan?
What merit do I in myfelf refpect,
That is so proud thy fervice to defpife;
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?


But, love, hate on; for now I know thy mind, Those that can fee, thou lov'ft; and I am blind.

Oh! from what power haft thou this powerful might,
With infufficiency my heart to sway;

To make me give the lye to my true fight,
And fwear that brightnefs doth not grace the day?
Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds,

There is fuch ftrength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all befts exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and fee just cause of hate?

Oh! tho' I love what others do abhor,
With others thou fhould't not abhor my ftatc.
If thy unworthinefs rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.


So oft have I invok'd thee for my mufe,
And found fuch fair affiftance in my verfe,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poefy difperfe.

Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to fing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majefty:

Yet be most proud of that, which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee;
In others works thou doft but mend the ftile,
And arts with thy fweet graces graced be:
But thou art all my art, and doft advance,.
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick mufe doth give another place.
I grant, fweet love! thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee agen;
He lends thee virtue, and he ftole that word
From thy behaviour. Beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek. He can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live,


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