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.

Let those who are in favour with their stars. LET those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honours and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye; And, in themselves, their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. Then happy I, that love and am belov'd Where I may not remove nor be remov'd.

When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes.

WHEN in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heav'n with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd;
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts, myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,—and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising)
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear :
That love is merchandiz'd whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days;

Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burdens ev'ry bough,

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.