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Age, I do defy thee:
O, sweet shepherd, hie thee;
For, methinks, thou stay'st too long!
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon faded;
Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded! Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree.
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.
O, yes, dear friend! I pardon crave of thee:
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
A lily pale, with damask die to grace her;
Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coin'd,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were
She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth; She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,1
If broken then, it is no fault of mine:
1 This Sonnet appears in Love's Labor's Lost, vol. iii, p. 273.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise,
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? 1
O, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant
Those thoughts to me like oaks, to thee like osiers
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine
Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend.
If knowlege be the mark, to know thee shall
Well learned is that tongue, that well can thee commend ;
All ignorant that soul, that sees thee without
(Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire.
1 This Sonnet is found in Love's Labor's Lost, vol. iii. p. 267.
Celestial as thou art, O, do not love that wrong, To sing the heavens' praise with such an earthly tongue.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
And as goods lost are seld or never found;
So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share:
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell,' quoth she, and come again tomorrow: '
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.
1 Put me off.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile;
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
For.she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
For why? she sigh'd, and bade me come to
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
I will not.