So loue be thou, although too daie thou fill
Thy hungrie eies, euen till they winck with fulneffe,
Too morrow fee againe, and doe not kill
The fpirit of loue, with a perpetual dulneffe :
Let this faid intrim like the ocean be
Which parts the fhore, where two contracted new,
Come daily to the banckes, that when they fee
Returne of loue, more bleft may be the view.
As cal it winter, which being ful of care,
Makes fōmers welcome, thrice more wifh'd, more rare.
EING your flaue what should I doe but tend,
Vpon the houres, and times of your defire?
I haue no precious time at al to spend,
Nor feruices to doe til you require.
Nor dare I chide the world without end houre,
Whilft I (my foueraine) watch the clock for you,
Nor thinke the bitterneffe of absence fowre,
When you haue bid your feruant once adieue.
Nor dare I queftion with my icallous thought,
Where you may be, or your affaires fuppofe,
But like a fad flaue ftay and thinke of nought
Saue where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a foole is loue, that in your will,
(Though you doe any thing) he thinkes no ill.
HAT God forbid, that made me firft your flaue,
I should in thought controule your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th'account of houres to craue,
Being your vaffail bound to ftaie your leisure.
Oh let me fuffer (being at your beck)
Th'imprifon'd absence of your libertie,
And patience tame, to fufferance bide each check,
Without accufing you of iniury.
Be where you lift, your charter is so strong,
That you your felfe may priuiledge your time
To what you will, to you it doth belong,
Your felfe to pardon of felfe-doing crime.
I am to waite, though waiting fo be hell,
Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.
IF their bee nothing new, but that which is,
Hath beene before, how are our braines beguild,
Which laboring for inuention beare amisse
The fecond burthen of a former child?
Oh that record could with a back-ward looke,
Euen of fiue hundreth courfes of the funne,
Show me your image in fome antique booke,
Since minde at first in carrecter was done.
That I might fee what the old world could fay,
To this compofed wonder of your frame,
Whether we are mended, or where better they,
Or whether reuolution be the fame.
Oh fure I am the wits of former daies,
To fubiects worfe haue giuen admiring praise.
LIKE as the waues make towards the pibled shore,
So do our minuites haften to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toile all forwards do contend.
Natiuity once in the maine of light,
Crawles to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipfes gainst his glory fight,
And time that gaue, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfixe the florifh fet on youth,
And delues the paralels in beauties brow,
Feedes on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing ftands but for his fieth to mow.
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, difpight his cruell hand.
Is it thy wil, thy image should keepe open
My heauy eielids to the weary night?
Doft thou defire my flumbers fhould be broken,
While fhadowes like to thee do mocke my fight?
Is it thy fpirit that thou fend'st from thee
So farre from home into my deeds to prye,
To find out fhames and idle houres in me,
The skope and tenure of thy ieloufie?
O no, thy loue though much, is not fo great,
It is my loue that keepes mine eie awake,
Mine owne true loue that doth my rest defeat,
To plaie the watch-man euer for thy fake.
For thee watch I, whilft thou doft wake elsewhere,
From me farre of, with others all to neere.
INNE of felfe-loue poffeffeth al mine eie,
And all my foule, and al my euery part;
And for this finne there is no remedie,
It is fo grounded inward in my heart.
Me thinkes no face fo gratious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of fuch account,
And for my felfe mine owne worth do define,
As I all other in all worths furmount.
But when my glaffe fhewes me my felfe indeed
Beated and chopt with tand antiquitic,
Mine owne felfe loue quite contrary I read
Selfe, fo felfe louing were iniquity,
Tis thee (my felfe) that for my felfe I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy daies.
AGAINST my loue shall be as I am now
With times iniurious hand chrufht and ore-worne,
When houres haue dreind his blood and fild his brow
With lines and wrincles, when his youthfull morne
Hath trauaild on to ages steepie night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanifht out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his fpring.
For fuch a time do I now fortifie
Against confounding ages cruell knife,
That he shall neuer cut from memory
My fweet loues beauty, though my louers life.
His beautie fhall in thefe blacke lines be feene,
And they fhall liue, and he in them still greene.
WHEN I haue feene by times fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworne buried age,
When fometime loftie towers I fee downe rafed,
And braffe eternall flaue to mortall rage.
When I haue feene the hungry ocean gaine
Aduantage on the kingdome of the shoare,
And the firme foilé win of the watry maine,
Increasing store with loffe, and loffe with store.
When I haue feene fuch interchange of state,
Or ftate it felfe confounded, to decay,
Ruine hath taught me thus to ruminate
That time will come and take my loue away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weepe to haue, that which it feares to loofe.
SINCE braffe, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesse sea,
But fad mortallity ore-fwaies their power,
How with this rage fhall beautie hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger then a flower?
O how fhall fummers hunny breath hold out,
Against the wrackfull fiedge of battring dayes,
When rocks impregnable are not so stoute,
Nor gates of steele fo ftrong but time decayes?
O fearefull meditation, where alack,
Shall times beft iewell from times cheft lie hid?
Or what ftrong hand can hold his fwift foote back,
Or who his spoile or beautie can forbid ?
O none, vnlesse this miracle haue might,
That in black inck my loue may ftill fhine bright.
'YR'D with all these for reftfull death I cry,
As to behold defert a begger borne,
And needie nothing trimd in iollitie,
And purest faith vnhappily forfworne,
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