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Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs,
And let that pine to aggravate thy ftore;
Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.

So fhalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
Immoderate Paffion.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurfeth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reafon, the phyfician to my love,
Angry that his prefcriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I defperate now approve;
Defire is death, which phyfick did except.
Paft cure I am, now reafon is past cure;
And frantick mad with evermore unreft,
My thoughts and my difcourfe as madmens are,
At random from the truth vainly exprefs'd.

For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Love's Powerful Subtlety.

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true fight!
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That cenfures falfly what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes doat,
What means the world to say it is not so?

If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love's eye is not fo true as all mens. No,
How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
That is fo vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, tho' I miftake my view;
The fun itfelf fees not, till Heaven clears,

O! cunning love! with tears thou keep'ft me blind,

Left eyes well-feeing thy foul faults fhould find.

Can't thou, O cruel! fay I love thee not?
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
All of myself, all tyrant for thy fake?
Who hateft thou, that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'ft thou that I do fawn upon ?
Nay, if thou low'rft on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myfelf with prefent moan?
What merit do I in myfelf refpect,
That is fo proud thy fervice to despise;
When all my beft doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on; for now I know thy mind, Those that can fee, thou lov'ft; and I am blind.

Oh! from what power haft thou this powerful might,
With infufficiency my heart to fway;

To make me give the lye to my true fight,
And fwear that brightnefs doth not grace the day?
Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refufe of thy deeds,

There is fuch ftrength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all befts exceeds ?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

Oh! tho' I love what others do abhor,
With others thou should'st not abhor my state.
If thy unworthinefs rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

Retaliation.

So oft have I invok'd thee for my mufe,
And found fuch fair affiftance in my verfe,
As every alien pen hath got my ufe,
And under thee their poefy difperfe.

Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to fing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty :

Yet be most proud of that, which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee;
In others works thou doft but mend the stile,
And arts with thy fweet graces graced be:.
But thou art all my art, and doft advance,
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick mufe doth give another place.
I grant, fweet love! thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee agen;
He lends thee virtue, and he ftole that word
From thy behaviour. Beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek. He can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live,

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Then thank him not for that which he doth fay, Since what he owes thee, thou,thyself dost pay.

Sun-Set,

That time of year thou may'ft in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs, which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd quires, where late the fweet birds fang.
In me thou feeft the twilights of fuch day,
As after fun-fet fadeth in the weft;

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond felf that feals up all in reft.
In me thou fee'ft the glowing of fuch fire,
That on the afhes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
'Tis thou perceiv'ft, which makes thy love more
ftrong

To love that well, which thou muft leave ere long.

Thy glafs will fhew thee how thy beauties wear:
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'st thou taste.
The wrinkles, which thy glafs will truly fhow,
Of mouthed graves will give the memory:
Thou by thy dial's fhady stealth may'st know
Time's thievifh progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,

Commit to thefe wafte blacks, and thou fhalt find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
Thefe offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy book.

A Monument to Fame.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetick foul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the leafe of my true love controul,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the fad augurs mock their own prefage:
Incertainties now crown themselves affur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this moft balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes ;
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhime,
While he infults o'er dull and fpeechlefs tribes.
And thou in this fhalt find thy monument,
When tyrants crefts and tombs of brafs are spent.

What's in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
What's new to fpeak, what now to regifter,
That may exprefs my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, fweet love! but yet like prayers divine,
I muft each day fay o'er the very fame;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
E'en as when firft I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love, in love's fresh cafe,'
Weighs not the duft and injuries of age,
Nor gives to neceffary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page:
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would fhew it dead.

Perjury.

Love is too young to know what confcience is,
Yet who knows not confcience is born of love?

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