[ocr errors]

But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'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 moving others, are themselves as stone
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow :
They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expence :
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewarts of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Tho' to itself it only live and die;

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed out-braves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds, Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name?
Oh! in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose!


That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
Oh! what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chuse out thee:
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege,
The hardest knife, ill us'd, doth lose his edge.


HOW like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen?
What old December's barrenness every where!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time;
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease.
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me,

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute :

Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a chear,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near."


From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud py'd April (drest in all his trinı)
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet sinell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

Cou'd make me any summer's story tell;

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.

Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those :
Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

The forward violet thus did I chide;

Sweet thief! whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride,
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd:
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robb'ry has annex'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him u to death.


More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.


WHERE art thou, muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful muse, and strait redeem,
In gentle numbers, time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And give thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If time hath any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,

And make time's spoils despised every where.

Give my love fame, faster than time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.

Oh! truant muse! what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?
But truth and beauty on my love depends:
So dost thou too, and therein dignify'd.
Make answer, muse, wilt thou not haply say,
Truth needs no colour with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd.


Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse no silence so, for't lies in thee

To make her much out-live a golden tomb,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, muse, I teach thee how

To make her seem long hence, as she shows now.


TO me, fair love, you never can be old;
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forest shook three summers pride;
Three beauteous springs, to yellow Autumn turn'd,
In process of the seasons, have I seen;

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you, fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no place perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which, methinks, still does stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd.
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,

you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

Let ot my love be call'd idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idle show;

Since all alike my songs and praises be

To one, of one, still such, and ever so:

« VorigeDoorgaan »