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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, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears and all were jestings.
She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth,
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye,
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd: Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove; [bow'd. Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend. [suffice; If knowledge 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 wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire :
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire. 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 flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud:
A brittle glass, that's broken presently:
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
Farewell, quoth she, and come again to-morrow;
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether : 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither : Wander, a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
duff'd] i. e. put off.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now
It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see,
Her fancy fell a turning.
a moon] i. e. a month, Steevens's conjecture for the reading of the old copy, "an hour."
Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight,
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight:
To put in practice either, alas it was a spite
But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain,
On a day (alack the day!)