When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
Who is it, that says most, which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew?
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory:
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear;
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making him still admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessing add a curse,
Being fond of praise, which makes your praises worse.
My tongue-ty'd muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compil'd,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the muses fill'd.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry Amen
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish'd form of well refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Tho' words come hindmost) holds his ranks before :
Then others, for the breath of words, respect;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of (all-too-precious) you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain rehearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew!
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night,
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter that enfeebled mine.
Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing,
And, like enough, thou know'st thy estimate;
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee, but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking.
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, in waking, no such matter.
As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
With a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone;
She (poor bird!) as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lovely shown,
Made me think upon my own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain;
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee?
King Pandion, he is dead;
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd;
Every one, that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find;
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such like flattering
Pity but he was a king.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandment.
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.
A REQUEST TO HIS SCORNFUL LOVE.
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against thyself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, tho' thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory.
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee 'vantage, double 'vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I strait will halt;
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ;
Be absent from thy walks, and on my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself I'll vow debate;
For I must ne'er love him, whom thou dost hate.
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow,
Come in the rereward of a conquer'd woe!
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite ;
But in the onset come, so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might.
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so.
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, tho' new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse:
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest.
But these particulars are not my measure ;
All these I better, in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost;
Of more delight than hawks or horses be:
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
A LOVER'S AFFECTION, THOUGH HIS LOVE PROVE
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than my love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end;
I see a better state to me belongs,.
Than that which on my humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie;
Oh what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed fair that fears no blot?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not.
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem to love me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In many's look the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange ::
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
What e'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's working be,
Thy looks shall nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
They that have power to hurt, and will do none,,
That do not do the thing they must do, show;
Who moing others, are themselves as stone:
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow :.
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense:
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