Volume 7: Sonnet LXVIII
Thus is his Cheek the Map of Days out-worn,
When Beauty liv'd and dy'd as Flowers do now;
Before these bastard Signs of Fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living Brow.
Before the Golden Tresses of the Dead,
The Right of Sepulchers, were shorn away,
To live a second Life on second Head,
E'er Beauty's dead Fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique Hours are seen,
Without all Ornament, it self, and true,
Making no Summer of another's Green,
Robbing no old to dress his Beauty new;
  And him as for a Map doth Nature store,
  To show false Art what Beauty was of yore. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIX
Those Parts of thee that the World's Eye doth view,
Want nothing, that the thought of Hearts can mend:
All Tongues (the Voice of Souls) give thee that End,
Uttering bare Truth, even so as Foes commend,
Their outward thus with outward Praise is crown'd:
But those same Tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other Accents do this Praise confound
By seeing farther than the Eye hath shown.
They look into the Beauty of thy Mind,
And that in ghess they measure by thy Deeds,
Then churls their Thoughts (altho their Eyes were kind)
To thy fair Flower add the rank Smell of Weeds.
  But why? thy Odor matcheth not thy show,
  The Toil is this, that thou dost common grow.

Volume 7: Sonnet LX
Like as the Waves make towards the pibled Shore,
So do our Minutes hasten to their End.
Each changing Place, with that which goes before,
In sequent Toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the Main of Light,
Crawles to Maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked Eclipses 'gainst his Glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his Gift confound.
Time doth transfix the Flourish set on Youth,
And delves the Parallels in Beauty's Brow,
Feeds on the Rarities of Nature's Truth,
And nothing stands but for his Sithe to mow.
  And yet to Times in hope my Verse shall stand,
  Praising thy Worth, despight his cruel Hand. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIII
Against my Love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious Hand crush'd and o'er-worn,
When Hours have drain'd his Blood and fill'd his Brow
With Lines and Wrinkles, when his youthful Morn
Hath travail'd on to Age's steepy Night,
And all those Beauties, whereof now he's King,
Are vanishing, or vanish'd out of Sight,
Stealing away the Treasure of his Spring.
For such a Time do I now Fortify,
Against confounding Age's cruel Knife,
That he shall never cutt from Memory
My sweet Love's Beauty, tho my Lover's Life.
  His Beauty shall in these black Lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them, still green. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIV
When I have seen by Time's fell Hand defac'd
The rich proud Cost of out-worn buried Age;
When sometimes lofty Towers I see down raz'd,

And Brass eternal Slave to mortal Rage;
When I have seen the hungry Ocean gain
Advantage on the Kingdom of the Shoar,
And the firm Soil win of the watry Main,
Increasing Store with Loss, and Loss with Store;
When I have seen such Interchange of State,
Or State it self confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my Love away.
  This Thought is as a Death, which cannot choose
  But weep to have that which it fears to loose. Volume 7: Sonnet LXV
Since Brass, nor Stone, nor Earth, nor boundless Sea,
But sad Mortality o'er-sways their Power,
How with this Rage shall Beauty hold a Plea,
Whose Action is no stronger than a Flower?
O! how shall Summer's hungry Breath hold out,
Against the wrackful Siege of battering Days,
When Rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor Gates of Steel so strong, but Time decays?
O! fearful Meditation, where a-lack
Shall Time's best Jewel from Time's Chest lie hid?
Or what strong Hand can hold this swift Foot back,
Or who his Spoil on Beauty can forbid?
  O! none, unless this Miracle have might,
  That in black Ink my Love may still shine bright. Volume 7: Sonnet LXVI
Tyr'd with all these for restful Death I cry,
As to behold Desert a Beggar born,
And needy Nothing trim'd in Jolity,
And purest Faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded Honour shamefully misplac'd,
And Maiden Virtue rudely Strumpeted,
And right Perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And Strength by limping Sway disabled,

And Art made Tongue-ty'd by Authority,
And Folly (Doctor-like) controuling Skill,
And simple Truth miscall'd Simplicity,
And Captive good attending Captain Ill.
  Tyr'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
  Save that to die, I leave my Love alone. Volume 7: Sonnet LIII
What is your Substance? whereof are you made,
That Millions of strange Shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one Shade,
And you but one, can every Shadow lend;
Describe Adonis, and the Counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you,
On Helen's Cheek all Art of Beauty set,
And you in Grecian Tires are painted new.
Speak of the Spring and Foyzen of the Year,
The one doth shadow of your Beauty show,
The other as your Bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessed Shape we know.
  In all external Grace you have some Part,
  But you like none, none you for constant Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet LIV
O! how much more doth Beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet Ornament which Truth doth give?
The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet Odour, which doth in it live.
The Canker-blooms have full as deep a Die,
As the perfumed Tincture of the Roses,
Hang on such Thorns, and play as wantonly,
When Summer's breath their masked Buds discloses.
But for their Vertue's only in their show,
They live unmov'd, and unrespected fade,

Die to themselves: Sweet Roses do not so,
Of their sweet Deaths, are sweetest Odours made.
  And so of you, beauteous and lovely Youth,
  When that shall fade, by Verse distills your Truth. Volume 7: Sonnet LVII
Being your Slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the Hours and Times of your Desire?
I have no precious Time at all to spend,
Nor Services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the World-without-end-Hour,
Whilst I (my Soveraign) watch the Clock for you;
Nor think the Bitterness of Absence sour,
When you have bid your Servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous Thought,
Where you may be, or your Affairs suppose,
But like a sad Slave stay and think of nought,
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
  So true a Fool is Love, that in your Will,
  (Tho you do any thing) he thinks no ill. Volume 7: Sonnet LVIII
That God forbid that made me first your Slave,
I should in Thought controul your times of Pleasure,
Or at your Hand the Account of Hours to crave,
Being your Vassal bound to stay your Leisure.
Oh! let me suffer, (being at your Beck)
Th' imprison'd Absence of your Liberty,
And Patience tame, to Sufferance bide each Check,
Without accusing you of Injury!
Be where you list, your Charter is so strong,
That you your self may privilege your Time
To what you will; to you it doth belong,
Your self to pardon of self-doing Crime.

  I am to wait, tho waiting so be Hell,
  Not blame your Pleasure, be it ill or well. Volume 7: Sonnet LIX
If there be nothing new, but that which is,
Hath been before, how are our Brains beguil'd,
Which labouring for Invention bear amiss
The second Burthen of a former Child?
O! that Record could with a backward Look,
Even of five hundred Courses of the Sun,
Show me your Image in some antique Book,
Since mine at first in Character was done:
That I might see what the old World could say,
To this composed Wonder of your Frame,
Whether we are mended, or where better they,
Or whether Revolution be the same.
  Oh! sure I am, the Wits of former Days,
  To Subjects worse have given admiring Praise. Volume 7: Sonnet I
From fairest Creatures we desire Increase,
That thereby Beauty's Rose may never die;
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender Heir might bear his Memory.
But thou contracted to thine own bright Eyes,
Feed'st thy Light's Flame with self-substantial Fuel,
Making a Famine where Abundance lies,
Thy self thy Foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the World's fresh Ornament,
And only Herald to the gaudy Spring,

Within thine own Bud buriest thy Content,
And tender Churle mak'st waste in niggarding.
  Pity the World, or else this Glutton be
  To eat the World's due, by the Grave and thee. Volume 7: Sonnet II
When forty Winters shall besiege thy Brow,
And dig deep Trenches in thy Beauty's Field,
Thy Youth's proud Livery so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd Weed of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy Beauty lies,
Where all the Treasure of thy lusty Days;
To say within thine one deep-sunken Eyes,
Were an all-eating Shame, and thriftless Praise.
How much more Praise deserv'd thy Beauty's Use,
If thou couldst answer, This fair Child of mine
Shall sum my Count, and make my old Excuse,
Proving his Beauty by succession thine.
  This were to be new made when thou art old,
  And see thy Blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold. Volume 7: Sonnet III
Look in thy Glass, and tell the Face thou viewest,
Now is the time that Face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou do'st beguile the World, unbless some Mother.
For where is she so fair, whose un-eard Womb
Disdains the tillage of thy Husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the Tomb
Of his self Love, to stop Posterity?
Thou art thy Mother's Glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her Prime.
So thou thro Windows of thine Age shalt see,
Despight of Wrinkles, this thy golden Time.
  But if thou live, remember not to be,
  Die single, and thine Image dies with thee.

Volume 7: Sonnet XIII
O that you were your self, but Love, you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live;
Against this coming End you should prepare,
And your sweet Semblance to some other give.
So shou'd that Beauty, which you hold in Lease,
Find no Determination; then you were
Your self again after your self's Decease,
When your sweet Issue your sweet Form shou'd bear.
Who lets so fair a House fall to decay,
Which Husbandry in Honour might uphold,
Against the stormy Gusts of Winter's Day,
And barren Rage of Death's eternal Cold?
  O! none but Unthrifts, dear my Love, you know,
  You had a Father, let your Son say so. Volume 7: Sonnet XIV
Not from the Stars do I my Judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil Luck,
Of Plagues, of Dearths, or Seasons quality:
Nor can I Fortune to brief Minutes tell,
Pointing to each his Thunder, Rain, and Wind;
Or say with Princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict, that I in Heaven find.
But from thine Eyes my Knowledge I derive,
And constant Stars; in them I read such Art,
As Truth and Beauty shall together thrive,
If from thy self, to Store thou wouldst convert:
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
  Thy End is Truth's, and Beauty's Doom, and Date. Volume 7: Sonnet XV
When I consider every thing that grows,
Holds in Perfection but a little Moment;

That this huge Stage presenteth nought but Shows,
Whereon the Stars in secret influence comment:
When I perceive, that Men as Plants increase,
Cheared and check'd even by the self-same Sky,
Vaunt in their youthful Sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave State out of Memory:
Then the Conceit of this inconstant Stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my Sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your Day of Youth to sullied Night;
  And all in war with Time, for love of you,
  As he takes from you, I ingraft you new. Volume 7: Sonnet XVI
But wherefore do not you a mightier Way
Make war upon this bloody Tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your Decay
With Means more blessed, than my barren Rhime?
Now stand you on the Top of happy Hours;
And many maiden Gardens yet unset,
With vertuous Wish would bear you living Flowers,
Much liker than your painted Counterfeit.
So shou'd the Lines of Life, that Life repair,
Which this (Time's Pensil, or my Pupil Pen)
Neither in inward Worth, nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in Eyes of Men,
  To give away your self, keeps your self still,
  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet Skill. Volume 7: Sonnet XVII
Who will believe my Verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high Deserts?
Tho yet Heaven knows it is but as a Tomb,
Which hides your Life, and shows not half your Parts:

If I cou'd write the Beauty of your Eyes,
And in fresh Numbers number all your Graces;
The Age to come wou'd say this Poet lies,
Such heavenly Touches ne're touch'd earthly Faces.
So should my Papers (yellow'd with their Age)
Be scorn'd, like old Men of less Truth, than Tongue,
And your true Rights be term'd a Poet's Rage,
And stretched Metre of an Antick Song.
  But were some Child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice in it, and in my Rhime. Volume 7: Sonnet VII
Loe! in the Orient when the gracious Light
Lifts up his burning Head, each under Eye
Doth Homage to his new appearing Sight,
Serving with Looks his sacred Majesty:
And having clim'd the steep-up heavenly Hill,
Resembling strong Youth in his middle Age,
Yet mortal Looks adore his Beauty still,
Attending on his golden Pilgrimage.
But when from high-most Pitch, with weary Care,
Like feeble Age he reeleth from the Day,
The Eyes (fore-dutious) now converted are
From his low Tract, and look another way.
  So thou, thy self out-going in thy Noon,
  Unlook'd on dy'st, unless thou get a Son.

Volume 7: Sonnet IV
Unthrifty Loveliness! why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy Beauty's Legacy?
Nature's Bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous Nigard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous Largess given thee, to give?
Profitless Usurer, why dost thou use
So great a Sum of Sums, yet can'st not live?
For having Traffick with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive;
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable Audit canst thou leave?
  Thy unus'd Beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
  Which used lives th' Executor to be. Volume 7: Sonnet V
Those Hours, that with gentle Work did frame
The lovely Gaze where every Eye doth dwell,
Will play the Tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel.
For never-resting Time leads Summer on
To hideous Winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checkt with Frost, and lusty Leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snow'd, and Bareness every where.
Then were not Summer's Distillation left,
A liquid Prisoner pent in Walls of Glass,
Beauty's Effect with Beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no Remembrance what it was.
  But Flowers distill'd, tho they with Winter meet,
  Lose but their Show, their Substance still lives sweet. Volume 7: Sonnet VI
Then let not Winter's ragged Hand deface
In thee thy Summer, e'er thou be distill'd:

Make sweet some Vial, Treasure thou some Place
With Beauty's Treasure, e'er it be self-kill'd:
That Use is not forbidden Usury,
Which happies those, that pay the willing Loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one:
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee;
Then what could Death do if thou should'st depart,
Leaving thee living in Posterity?
  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
  To be Death's Conquest, and make Worms thine Heir. Volume 7: Sonnet VIII
Musick to hear, why hear'st thou Musick sadly?
Sweets with Sweets war not, Joy delights in Joy:
Why lov'st thou that, which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with Pleasure thine Annoy?
If the true Concord of well-tuned Sounds,
By Unions married do offend thy Ear;
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In Singleness the Parts, that thou should'st bear.
Mark how one string sweet Husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling Sire and Child, and happy Mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing Note do sing;
  Whose speechless Song being many, seeming one,
  Sings this to thee, Thou single wilt prove none. Volume 7: Sonnet IX
Is it for fear to wet a Widow's Eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single Life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The World will wail thee like a makeless Wife;

The World will be thy Widow and still weep,
That thou no Form of thee hast left behind;
When every private Widow well may keep,
By Childrens Eyes, her Husband's Shape in Mind:
Look what an Unthrift in the World doth spend,
Shifts but his Place, for still the World enjoys it;
But Beauty's waste hath in the World an End,
And kept unus'd, the Us'rer so destroys it.
  No Love towards others in that Bosom sits,
  That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. Volume 7: Sonnet X
For shame! deny that thou bear'st Love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident;
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possest with murd'rous Hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous Roof to ruinate,
Which to repair should be thy chief Desire.
O! change thy Thought, that I may change my Mind:
Shall Hate be fairer lodg'd, than gentle Love?
Be, as thy Presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kindhearted prove.
  Make thee another self for love of me,
  That Beauty still may live in thine, or thee. Volume 7: Sonnet XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh Blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou maist call thine, when thou from Youth convertest:
Herein lives Wisdom, Beauty, and Increase;
Without this, Folly, Age, and cold Decay;
If all were minded so, the Times should cease,
And threescore Years would make the World away:
Let those, whom Nature hath not made for Store,
Harsh, featurless, and rude, barrenly perish:

Look whom she best indow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous Gift thou shouldst in Bounty cherish:
  She carv'd thee for her Seal, and ment thereby
  Thou shouldst print more, not let that Copy die. Volume 7: Sonnet XII
When I do count the Clock, that tells the Time,
And see the brave Day sunk in hidious Night;
When I behold the Violet past Prime,
And sable Curls are silver'd o'er with White;
When lofty Trees I see barren of Leaves,
Which erst from Heat did canopy the Herd,
And Summer's Green all girded up in Sheaves,
Born on the Bier with white and bristly Beard:
Then of thy Beauty do I question make,
That thou among the Wastes of Time must go;
Since Sweets and Beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow,
  And nothing 'gainst Time's Sithe can make Defence,
  Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXVIII
When my Love swears that she is made of Truth,
I do believe her (tho I know she lyes)
That she might think me some untutor'd Youth,
Unskilful in the World's false Forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking, that she thinks me young,
Altho I know my Years be past the best:
I smiling, credit her false-speaking Tongue,
Outfacing Faults in Love with Love's ill Rest.
But wherefore says my Love, that she is Young?
And wherefore say not I, that I am old?
O! Love's best Habit is a smoothing Tongue,
And Age (in Love) loves not to have Years told.

Therefore I'll lye with Love, and Love with me;
Since that our Faults in Love thus smother'd be. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLIV
Two Loves I have, of Comfort, and Despair,
That like two Spirits do suggest me still;
My better Angel is a Man (right fair)
My worser Spirit a Woman (colour'd ill.)
To win me soon to Hell, my Female Evil
Tempteth my better Angel from my Side;
And would corrupt my Saint to be a Devil,
Wooing his Purity with her fair Pride.
And whether, that my Angel be turn'd Fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each Friend,
I ghess one Angle in another's Hell.
  The Truth I shall not know, but live in Doubt,
  Till my bad Angel fire my good one out. Volume 7: Poem III
Did not the heavenly Rhetorick of thine Eye,
'Gainst whom the World could not hold Argument,
Perswade my Heart to this false Perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not Punishment.
A Woman I forswore: But I will prove,
Thou being a Goddess, I forswore not thee;
My Vow was earthly, thou a heavenly Love,
Thy Grace being gain'd, cures all Disgrace in me.
My Vow was Breath, and Breath a Vapour is;
Then thou fair Sun, that on this Earth doth shine,

Exhale this Vapour Vow, in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no Fault of mine.
  If by me broke, what Fool is not so wise
  To break an Oath to win a Paradise? Volume 7: Sonnet XXI
So is it not with me, as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by a painted Beauty to his Verse,
Who Heaven it self for Ornament doth use,
And every Fair with his Fair doth rehearse,
Making a Complement of proud Compare
With Sun and Moon, with Earth and Seas rich Gems,
With April's first-born Flowers, and all things rare,
That Heaven's Air in this huge Rondure hems.
O! let me true in Love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my Love is as fair
As any Mother's Child, tho not so bright
As those Gold Candels fix'd in Heaven's Air.
  Let them say more, that like of Hear-say well;
  I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIII
As an unperfect Actor on the Stage,
Who with his Fear is put besides his Part;
Or some fierce Thing repleat with too much Rage,
Whose Strength abundant weakens his own Heart;
So I, for fear of Trust forget to say,
The perfect Ceremony of Love's Right,
And in mine own Love's Strength seem to decay,
O'er-charg'd with Burthen of mine own Love's Might.

O! let my Looks be then the Eloquence,
And dumb Presagers of my speaking Breast,
Who plead for Love, and look for Recompence,
More than that Tongue, that more hath more exprest.
  O! learn to read what silent Love hath writ;
To hear with Eyes belongs to Love's fine Wit. Volume 7: Sonnet XXII
My Glass shall not perswade me I am Old,
So long as Youth and thou art of one Date;
But when in thee Time's Sorrows I behold,
Then look I Death my Days should expiate.
For all that Beauty, that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly Rayment of my Heart,
Which in thy Breast doth live, as thine in me;
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore, Love, be of thy self so wary,
As I not for my self, but for thee, will,
Bearing thy Heart, which I will keep so chary,
As tender Nurse her Babe from faring ill.
  Presume not on thy Heart when mine is slain,
  Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again. Volume 7: Poem IV
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a Brook,
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the Lad with many a lovely Look;
Such Looks, as none could look but Beauty's Queen.
She told him Stories, to delight his Ears;
She show'd him Favours, to allure his Eye;

To win his Heart, she toucht him here and there;
Touches so soft still conquer Chastity.
But whether unripe Years did want Conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figur'd Proffer;
The tender Nibbler wou'd not touch the Bait,
But smile, and jest, at every gentle Offer.
  Then fell she on her back, fair Queen! and toward;
  He rose and ran away, ah Fool! too froward. Volume 7: Poem V
If Love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O! never Faith cou'd hold, if not to Beauty vow'd:
Tho to my self forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts to me like Oaks, to thee like Osiers bow'd.
Study his byas Leaves, and makes his Book thine Eyes,
Where all those Pleasures live, that Art can comprehend.
If Knowledge be the Mark, to know Thee shall suffice:
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 Heaven's Praise with such an earthly Tongue. Volume 7: Sonnet XX
A woman's Face, with Nature's own Hand painted,
Hast thou the Master, Mistress of my Passion;
A Woman's gentle Heart, but not acquainted
With shifting Change, as is false Womens Fashion;

An Eye more bright than theirs, less false in rowling,
Gilding the Object whereupon it gazeth.
A Man in hew all Hews in his controuling,
Which steals Mens Eyes, and Womens Souls amazeth:
And for a Woman wer't thou first created,
Till Nature as she wrought thee, fell a doating,
And by Addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing, to my Purpose nothing.
  But since she prick'd thee out for Womens Pleasure,
  Mine, be thy Love, and thy Love's Use, their Treasure. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVII
Weary with Toil, I haste me to my Bed,
The dear Repose for Limbs with Travail tired;
But then begins a Journey in my Head
To work my Mind, when Bodies Work's expired.
For then my Thoughts (far from where I abide)
Intend a zealous Pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping Eye-lids open wide,
Looking on Darkness, which the Blind doe see.
Save that my Soul's imaginary Sight
Presents their Shadow to my sightless View;
Which like a Jewel (hung in ghastly Night)
Makes black Night beauteous, and her old Face new.
  Lo! thus by Day my Limbs, by Night my Mind,
  For thee, and for my self no Quiet find. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVIII
How can I then return in happy Plight,
That am debar'd the Benefit of Rest?
When Days Oppression is not eas'd by Night,
But Day by Night, and Night by Day opprest?

And each (tho Enemies to others reign)
Do in Consent shake Hands to torture me;
The one by Toil, the other to complain,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the Day, to please him, thou art bright,
And do'st him grace when Clouds do blot the Heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd Night,
When sparkling Stars tweer out, thou guild'st the Even.
  But Day doth daily draw my Sorrows longer,
  And Night doth nightly make Grief's length seem stronger. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIX
When in Disgrace with Fortune and Mens Eyes,
I all alone beweep my out-cast State,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless Cries,
And look upon my self, and curse my Fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with Friends possest;
Desiring this Man's Art, and that Man's Scope,
With what I most enjoy, contented least.
Yet in these Thoughts my self 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 remembred, such Wealth brings,
  That then I scorn to change my State with Kings. Volume 7: Poem VI
Scarce had the Sun dry'd up the dewy Morn,
And scarce the Herd gone to the Hedge for Shade;
When Cytherea (all in Love forlorn)
A longing Tarriance for Adonis made,
Under an Osier growing by a Brook,
A Brook, where Adon us'd to cool his Spleen.

Hot was the Day, she hotter that did look
For his Approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his Mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the Brook's green Brim:
The Sun lookt on the World with glorious Eye,
Yet not so wistly, as this Queen on him.
  He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
  Oh! Jove (quoth she) why was not I a Flood? Volume 7: Poem VII
Fair is my Love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a Dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than Glass, and yet as Glass is brittle;
Softer than Wax, and yet as Iron rusty:
  A Lilly Pale, with Damask Dye to grace her;
  None fairer, nor none falser to deface 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 burnt with Love, as Straw with Fire flaming;
She burnt out Love, as soon as Straw out burning:
She fram'd the Love, and yet she foil'd the Framing;
She bad Love last, and yet she fell a turning.
  Was this a Lover, or a Letcher whether?
  Bad at the best, though excellent in neither.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXX
When to the Sessions of sweet silent Thought
I summon up Remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a Thing I sought,
And with old Woes new wail my dear Time's waste.
Then can I drown an Eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious Friends hid in Death's dateless Night,
And weep afresh Love's long-since cancell'd Woe,
And moan th' Expence of many a vanish'd Sight.
Then can I grieve at Grievances foregone,
And heavily from Woe to Woe tell o'er
The sad Account of fore-bemoaned Moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
  But if the while I think on thee (dear Friend)
  All Losses are restor'd, and Sorrows end. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXI
Thy Bosom is indeared with all Hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love and all Love's loving Parts,
And all those Friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious Tear
Hath dear religious Love stolen from mine Eye,
As Interest of the Dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie:
Thou art the Grave where buried Love doth live,
Hung with the Trophies of my Lovers gone,
Who all their Parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many, now is thine alone.
  Their Images I lov'd, I view in thee,
  And Thou (all they) hast all the all of Me. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented Day,
When that Churl Death my Bones with Dust shall cover;

And shalt by Fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude Lines of thy deceased Lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the Time,
And though they be out-stript by every Pen,
Reserve them for my Love, not for their Rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier Men.
Oh! then vouchsafe me but this loving Thought,
Had my Friend's Muse grown with this growing Age,
A dearer Birth than this his Love had brought
To march in Ranks of better Equipage:
  But since he died, and Poets better prove,
  Theirs for their Stile I'll read, His for His Love. Volume 7: Poem VIII
If Musick and sweet Poetry agree,
As they must needs (the Sister and the Brother)
Then must the Love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is Dear, whose heavenly Touch
Upon the Lute, doth ravish human Sense:
Spencer to me, whose deep Conceit is such,
As passing all Conceit, needs no Defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious Sound,
That Phœbus' Lute (the Queen of Musick) makes;
And I in deep Delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to Singing he betakes.
  One God is God of both (as Poets fain)
  One Knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

Volume 7: Poem IX
Fair was the Morn, when the fair Queen of Love,
Paler for Sorrow than her milkwhite Dove,
For Adon's sake, a Youngster proud and wild,
Her Stand she takes upon a steep-up Hill.
Anon Adonis comes with Horn and Hounds;
She, silly Queen, with more than Love's good Will,
Forbad the Boy he should not pass those Grounds:
Once (quoth she) did I see a fair sweet Youth
Here in these Brakes, deep wounded with a Boar,
Deep in the Thigh a Spectacle of Ruth;
See in my Thigh (quoth she) here was the Sore:
  She shewed hers, he saw more Wounds than one,
  And blushing fled, and left her all alone. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVIII
How can my Muse want Subject to invent,
While thou dost breath, that pour'st into my Verse
Thine own sweet Argument, too excellent,
For every vulgar Paper to rehearse.
Oh! give thy self the Thanks if ought in me,
Worthy Perusal, stand against thy sight;
For who's so dull, that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give Invention Light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth,
Than those old Nine, which Rhimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal Numbers to out-live long Date.
  If my slight Muse do please these curious Days,
  The Pain be mine, but thine shall be the Praise.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIX
Oh! how thy Worth with Manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better Part of me?
What can mine own Praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear Love lose Name of single one;
That by this Separation I may give
That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone.
Oh Absence! what a Torment wouldst thou prove!
Were't not that thy sour Leisure gave sweet Leave,
To entertain the Time with Thoughts of Love,
Who Time and Thoughts so sweetly dost deceive;
  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
  By praising him here, who doth hence remain. Volume 7: Sonnet XL
Take all my Loves, my Love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more, than thou hadst before?
No Love, my Love, that thou may'st true Love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my Love, thou my Love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my Love thou usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful Taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy Robb'ry, gentle Thief,
Although thou steal thee all my Poverty;
And yet Love knows it is a greater Grief
To bear Love's Wrong, than Hate's known Injury.
  Lascivious Grace, in whom all Ill well shows,
  Kill me with Spight, yet we must not be Foes.

Volume 7: Sonnet XLI
Those pretty Wrongs that Liberty commits,
When I am sometimes absent from thy Heart,
Thy Beauty, and thy Years full well befits,
For still Temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beautious thou art, and therefore to be assailed;
And when a Woman woos, what Woman's Son
Will sourely leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou might'st my Seat forbear,
And chide thy Beauty and thy straying Youth,
Who lead thee in their Riot even there,
Where thou art forc'd to break a twofold Truth;
  Hers by thy Beauty tempting her to thee,
  Thine by thy Beauty being false to me. Volume 7: Sonnet XLII
That thou hast her, it is not all my Grief,
And yet it may be said, I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wayling Chief,
A Loss in Love that touches me more nearly.
Loving Offenders, thus I will excuse ye;
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my Friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my Loss is my Love's Gain,
And losing her, my Friend hath found that Loss:
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this Cross.
  But here's the Joy, my Friend and I are one,
  Sweet Flattery, then she loves but me alone.

Volume 7: Poem XI
Venus with Adonis sitting by her,
Under a Mirtle Shade began to woo him:
She told the Youngling how God Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, she fell to him.
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike God embrac'd me,
And then she clipt Adonis in her Arms;
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike God unlac'd me,
As if the Boy should use like loving Charms.
Even thus (quoth she) he seized on my Lips,
And with her Lips on his did act the Seizure:
And as she fetched Breath away he skips,
And would not take her Meaning, nor her Pleasure.
  Ah! that I had my Lady at this Bay,
  To kiss and clip me, till I run away. Volume 7: Poem XII
Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together;
Youth is full of Pleasance, Age is full of Care;
Youth like Summer Morn, Age like Winter Weather;
Youth like Summer brave, Age like Winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, Age's Breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
  Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee;
    O! my Love, my Love is young:
  Age, I do defie thee, Oh! sweet Shepherd, hie thee;
    For methinks thou stayst too long.

Volume 7: Poem XIII
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful Good,
A shining Gloss, that fadeth suddenly;
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,
  Lost, faded, broken, dead within an Hour.
And as Goods lost are seld or never found;
As faded Gloss no rubbing will refresh;
As Flowers dead lie withered on the Ground;
As broken Glass no Cement can redress:
  So Beauty blemisht once, for ever's lost,
  In spite of Physick, Painting, Pain and Cost. Volume 7: Sonnet XLIV
If the dull Substance of my Flesh were Thought,
Injurious Distance should not stop my Way;
For then, despight of Space, I would be brought
To Limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then, although my Foot did stand
Upon the farthest Earth remov'd from thee,
For nimble Thought can jump both Sea and Land,
As soon as think the Place where he would be.
But ah! Thought kills me, that I am not Thought,
To leap large Lengths of Miles when thou art gone;
But that so much of Earth and Water wrought,
I must attend Time's Leisure with my Moan;
  Receiving nought by Elements so slow,
  But heavy Tears, Badges of either's Woe.

Volume 7: Sonnet XLV
The other two, slight Air, and purging Fire,
Are both with thee, where ever I abide;
The first my Thought, the other my Desire;
These present, absent, with swift Motion slide
For when these quicker Elements are gone
In tender Embassy of Love to thee,
My Life being made of Four, with two alone
Sinks down to Death, opprest with Melancholy;
Until Life's Composition be recured,
By those swift Messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again assured
Of their fair Health, recounting it to me.
  This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
  I send them back again, and straight grow sad, Volume 7: Poem X
Sweet Rose, fair Flower, untimely pluck'd, soon faded,
Pluck'd in the Bud, and faded in the Spring;
Bright orient Pearl, alack! too timely shaded,
Fair Creature, kill'd too soon by Death's sharp Sting;
  Like a green Plumb, that hangs upon a Tree,
  And falls, thro' Wind, before the Fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no Cause I have,
For why? Thou lefts me nothing in thy Will;
And yet thou lefts me more than I did crave,
For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
  O yes (dear Friend) I Pardon crave of thee,
  Thy Discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIII
Full many a glorious Morning have I seen,
Flatter the Mountain Tops with soveraign Eye,
Kissing with golden Face the Meadows green,
Gilding pale Streams with heavenly Alchumy;
Anon permit the basest Clouds to ride,
With ugly Rack on his celestial Face,
And from the forlorn World his Visage hide,
Stealing unseen to West with this Disgrace.
Even so my Sun one early Morn did shine,
With all triumphant Splendor on my Brow;
But out, alack! he was but one Hour mine,
The Region Cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
  Yet him for this my Love no whit disdaineth,
  Suns of the World may stain, when Heaven's Sun staineth. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIV
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous Day,
And make me travail forth without my Cloak,
To let base Clouds o'er-take me in my Way,
Hiding thy Bravery in their rotten Smoke?
'Tis not enough, that thro' the Cloud thou break,
To dry the Rain on my storm-beaten Face;
For no Man well of such a Salve can speak,
That heals the Wound, and cures not the Disgrace:
Nor can thy Shame give Physick to my Grief,
Tho thou repent, yet I have still the Loss;
Th' Offender's Sorrow lends but weak Relief
To him, that beareth strong Offences Loss.
  Ah! but those Tears are Pearl which thy Love sheds,
  And they are rich. and ransom all ill Deeds.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXV
No more be griev'd at that, which thou hast done;
Roses have Thorns, and silver Fountains Mud,
Clouds and Eclipses stain both Moon and Sun,
And loathsom Canker lives in sweetest Bud.
All Men make Faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy Trespass with Compare,
My self corrupting salving thy Amiss,
Excusing their Sins more, than their Sins are:
For to my sensual Fault I bring in Sense,
Thy adverse Party is thy Advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful Plea commence;
Such civil War is in my Love and Hate,
  That I an Accessary needs must be
  To that sweet Thief, which sorely robs from me. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVI
Let me confess, that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided Loves are one;
So shall those Blots, that do with me remain,
Without thy Help, by me be born alone.
In our two Loves there is but one Respect,
Though in our Lives a separable Spight,
Which though it alter not Love's sole Effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet Hours from Love's Delight.
I may not ever-more acknowledge thee,
Least my bewailed Guilt should do thee Shame;
Nor thou with publick Kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that Honour from thy Name.
  But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
  As thou being mine, mine is thy good Report.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVII
As a decrepit Father takes Delight
To see his active Child do Deeds of Youth,
So I made lame by Fortune's dearest Spight,
Take all my Comfort of thy Worth and Truth.
For whether Beauty, Birth, or Wealth, or Wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Intitled in their Parts, do crowned sit,
I make my Love ingrafted to this Store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this Shadow doth such Substance give,
That I in thy Abundance am suffic'd,
And by a Part of all thy Glory live:
  Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
  This Wish I have, then ten times happy Me. Volume 7: Poem XIV
Good Night, good Rest, ah! neither be my Share!
She bad good Night, that kept my Rest away;
And daft me to a Cabben hang'd with Care,
To descant on the Doubts of my Decay.
  Farewel (quoth she) and come again to Morrow:
  Farewel I could not, for I supt with Sorrow.
Yet at my Parting sweetly did she smile,
In Scorn, or Friendship, nill I conster whether:
It may be she joy'd to jest at my Exile;
It may be again to make me wander thither.
  Wander (a Word) for Shadows like my self,
  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 scite each moving Sense from idle Rest,
Not daring trust the Office of mine Eyes.
  While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
  And wish her Lays were tuned like the Lark.
For she doth welcome Day-light with her Ditty,
And drives away darkdreaming Night:
The Night so packt, I post unto my Pretty;
Heart hath his Hope, and Eyes their wished Sight;
  Sorrow chang'd to Solace, and Solace mixt with Sorrow,
  For why, she sigh'd, and bad me come to morrow.
Were I with her, the Night would post too soon;
But now are Minutes added to the Hours:
To spite me now, each Minute seems an Hour,
Yet not for me, shine Sun to succour Flowers.
  Pack Night, peep Day, good Day, of Night now borrow,
  Short Night, to Night, and length thy self to Morrow. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIV
Mine Eye hath play'd the Painter, and hath steel'd
Thy Beauty's Form in Table of my Heart:
My Body is the Frame, wherein 'tis held,
And Perspective it is best Painters Art.
For thro the Painter must you see his Skill,
To find where your true Image pictur'd lies,
Which in my Bosom's Shop is hanging still,
That hath his Windows glazed with thine Eyes.
Now see what good Turns Eyes for Eyes have done,
Mine Eyes have drawn thy Shape, and thine for me
Are Windows to my Breast, where thro the Sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

  Yet Eyes this Cunning want to grace their Art,
  They draw but what they see, know not the Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet XXV
Let those, who are in Favour with their Stars,
Of publick Honour, and proud Titles boast;
Whilst I, whom Fortune of such Triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joye 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 Warriour famoused for Worth,
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 beloved,
  Where I may not remove, nor be removed. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVI
Lord of my Love, to whom in Vassalage
Thy Merit hath my Duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written Ambassage,
To witness Duty, not to shew my Wit.
Duty so great, with Wit so poor as mine,
May make seem bare, in wanting Words to shew it;
But that I hope some good Conceit of thine
In my Soul's Thought (all naked) will bestow it.

Till whatsoever Star, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair Aspect,
And puts Apparrel on my tattered Loving,
To show me worthy of their sweet Respect.
  Then may I dear to boast how I do love thee,
  Till then, not show my Head, where thou may'st prove me. Volume 7: Sonnet L
How heavy do I journey on the Way,
When that I seek (my weary Travels End)
Doth teach that Ease and that Repose to say,
Thus far the Miles are measur'd from thy Friend?
The Beast, that bears me, tired with my Wo,
Plods dully on, to bear that Weight in me,
As if by some Instinct the Wretch did know
His Rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody Spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes Anger thrusts into his Hide;
Which heavily he answers with a Groan,
More sharp to me, than spurring to his Side:
  For that same Groan doth put this in my Mind,
  My Grief lies onward, and my Joy behind. Volume 7: Sonnet LI
Thus can my Love excuse the slow Offence
Of my dull Bearer, when from thee I speed.
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what Excuse will my poor Beast then find,
When swift Extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur tho mounted on the Wind,
In winged Speed no Motion shall I know.
Then can no Horse with my Desire keep Pace,
Therefore Desire (of perfect Love being made)

Shall neigh no dull Flesh in his fiery Race,
But Love for Love, thus shall excuse my Jade.
  Since from thee going, he went wilful slow,
  Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVI
Mine Eye and Heart are at a mortal War,
How to divide the Conquest of thy Sight:
Mine Eye, my Heart their Pictures Sight would bar,
My Heart, mine Eye the Freedom of that Right;
My Heart doth plead, that thou in him dost lye?
(A Closet never pierc'd with Christal Eyes)
But the Defendant doth that Plea deny,
And says in him their fair Appearance lies.
To side this Title, is impannelled
A Quest of Thoughts, all Tenants to the Heart,
And by their Verdict is determined
The clear Eyes Moiety, and the dear Heart's Part:
  As thus; mine Eyes due is their outward Part,
  And my Heart's Right their inward Love of Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVII
Betwixt mine Eye and Heart a League is took,
And each doth good Turns now unto the other:
When that mine Eye is famisht for a Look,
Or Heart in love with Sighs himself doth smother;
With my Love's Picture then my Eye doth feast,
And to the painted Banquet bids my Heart:
Another Time mine Eye is my Heart's Guest,
And in his Thoughts of Love doth share a Part.
So either by the Picture of my Love,
Thy self away, are present still with me,
For thou not farther than my Thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee.

  Or if they sleep, thy Picture in my Sight
  Awakes my Heart, to Heart's and Eyes Delight. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVIII
How careful was I, when I took my Way,
Each Trifle under truest Bars to thrust,
That to my Use it might unused stay
From Hands of Falshood, in sure Wards of Trust?
But thou, to whom my Jewels Trifles are,
Most worthy Comfort, now my greatest Grief;
Thou best of Dearest, and mine only Care,
Art left the Prey of every vulgar Thief.
Thee have I not lockt up in any Chest,
Save where thou art not (though I feel thou art)
Within the gentle Closure of my Breast,
From whence at Pleasure thou maist come and part;
  And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear;
  For Truth proves thievish for a Prize so dear. Volume 7: Sonnet XLIX
Against that time (if ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my Defects,
When as thy Love hath cast his utmost Sum,
Call'd to that Audit by advis'd Respects;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that Sun, thine Eye,
When Love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall Reasons find of settled Gravity:

Against that time do I insconce me here
Within the Knowledge of mine own Desert,
And this my Hand against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful Reasons on thy Part;
  To leave poor me thou hast the Strength of Laws,
  Since why to love, I can alledge no Cause. Volume 7: Poem XV
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 Eye could see,
  Her Fancy fell a turning.
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
  Unto the silly Damsel.
But one must be refused, more mickle was the Pain,
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to Gain;
For of the two the trusty Knight
Was wounded with Disdain,
  Alas! she could not help it.
Thus Art with Arms contending, was Victor of the Day,
Which by a Gift of Learning, did bear the Maid away.
Then lullaby! the learned Man hath got the Lady gay,
  For now my Song is ended.

Volume 7: Poem XVI
On a Day (alack the Day)
Love, whose Month was ever May,
Spied a Blossom passing Fair,
Playing in the wanton Air.
Through the velvet Leaves the Wind,
All unseen 'gan Passage find,
That the Lover (sick to Death)
Wisht himself the Heaven's Breath.
Air (quoth he) thy Cheeks may blow;
Air! would I might triumph so!
But (alas) my Hand hath sworn,)
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy Throne;
Vow (alack) for Youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a Sweet;
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear
Juno but an Æthiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy Love. Volume 7: Poem XVII
My Flocks feed not, my Ewes breed not,
My Rams speed not, all is amiss:
Love is dying, Faith's defying,
  Heart's denying, Causer of this.
All my merry Jiggs are quite forgot,
All my Lady's Love is lost (God wot)
Where her Faith was firmly fixt in Love,
There a Nay is plac'd without Remove.

  One silly Cross wrought all my Loss;
  O! frowning Fortune, cursed fickle Dame!
  For now I see Inconstancy,
  More in Women, than in Men remain.
In black mourn I, all Fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me living in Thrall:
Heart is bleeding, all Help needing;
O! cruel Speeding, fraughted with Gall!
My Shepherd's Pipe can sound no Deal,
My Weather's Bell rings doleful Knell,
My curtail Dog, that wont to have play'd,
Plays nor at all, but seems afraid;
  With Sighs so deep, procures to weep,
  In howling wise, to see my doleful Plight;
  How Sighs resound through heartless Ground,
  Like a thousand vanquisht Men in bloody Fight.
Clear Wells spring not, sweet Birds sing not,
Green Plants bring not forth their Die:
Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs black peeping fearfully.
All our Pleasure known to us poor Swains,
All our merry Meetings on the Plains,
All our Evening Sport from us is fled;
All our Love is lost, for Love is dead.
  Farewell, sweet Love, thy like ne'er was,
  For a sweet Content the Cause of all my Woe;
  Poor Coridon must live alone,
  Other Help for him I see that there is none.

Volume 7: Poem XVIII
When as thine Eye hath chose the Dame,
And stal'd the Deer, thou shouldst strike;
Let Reason rule things worthy Blame,
As well as Fancy (partly all might)
  Take Counsel of some wiser Head,
  Neither too young, nor yet unwed.
And when thou com'st thy Tale to tell,
Smooth not thy Tongue with filed Talk;
Least she some subtil Practise smell.
A Cripple soon can find a Halt!
  But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
  And set her Person forth to Sale.
What though her frowning Brows be bent?
Her cloudy Looks will calm e'er Night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her Delight:
  And twice desire e'er it be Day
  That, which with Scorn she put away.
What though she strive to try her Strength,
And ban, and braul, and say thee nay?
Her feeble Force will yield at length,
When Craft hath taught her thus to say:
  Had Women been so strong as Men,
  In Faith, you had not had it then.
And to her Will frame all thy Ways,
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there,
Where thy Desert may merit Praise
By ringing in thy Lady's Ear.

  The strongest Castle, Tower, and Town,
  The golden Bullet beats it down.
Serve always with assured Trust,
And in thy Sute be humble, true;
Unless thy Lady prove unjust,
Please never thou to chuse a New.
  When time shall serve, be thou not slack,
  To proffer though she put it back.
The Wiles and Guiles, that Women work,
Dissembled with an outward Shew;
The Tricks and Toys, that in them lurk,
The Cock that treads them shall not know.
  Have you not heard it said full oft,
  A Woman's Nay doth stand for nought?
Think Women still to strive with Men,
To sin, and never for to saint.
There is no Heaven (by Holy then)
When Time with Age shall them attaint.
Were Kisses all the Joys in Bed,
One Woman would another wed.
But soft enough, too much I fear,
Least that my Mistress hear my Song;
She will not stick to round me on th' Ear,
To teach my Tongue to be so long.
  Yet will she blush, here be it said,
  To hear her Secrets so bewraid.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXII
Sin of Self-love possesseth all mine Eye,
And all my Soul, and all my every Part;
And for this Sin there is no Remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my Heart.
Methinks no Face so gracious is, as mine,
No Shape so true, no Truth of such Account;
And for my self mine own Worth do define,
As I all other in all Worths surmount.
But when my Glass shews me my self indeed,
Beated and chop'd with tann'd Antiquity,
Mine own Self-love quite contrary I read,
Self, so self-loving, were Iniquity:
  'Tis thee (my Self) that for my self I praise,
  Painting my Age with Beauty of thy Days. Volume 7: Sonnet LV
Not Marble, nor the guilded Monument
Of Princes, shall out-live this powerful Rhime;
But you shall shine more bright in these Contents,
Than unswept Stone, besmeer'd with sluttish Time.
When wasteful War shall Statues overturn,
And Broils root out the Work of Masonry;
Nor Mars his Sword, nor War's quick Fire shall burn
The living Record of your Memory.
'Gainst Death, and all oblivious Enmity,
Shall you pace forth, your Praise shall still find Room,
Even in the Eyes of all Posterity,
That wear this World out to the ending Doom.
  So till the Judgment, that your self arise,
  You live in this, and dwell in Lovers Eyes.

Volume 7: Sonnet LII
So am I as the Rich, whose blessed Key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked Treasure,
The which he will not every Hour survey,
For blunting the fine Point of seldom Pleasure.
Therefore are Feasts so solemn and so rare;
Since seldom coming in the long Year set,
Like Stones of Worth they thinly placed are,
Or Captain Jewels in the Carconet.
So is the Time, that keeps you, as my Chest,
Or as the Wardrobe, which the Robe doth hide,
To make some special Instant special blest,
By new unfoulding his imprison'd Pride.
  Blessed are you, whose Worthiness gives Scope,
  Being had to triumph, being lackt to hope. Volume 7: Sonnet LXI
Is it thy Will, thy Image should keep open
My heavy Eye-lids to the weary Night?
Dost thou desire my Slumbers shou'd be broken,
While Shadows like to thee do mock my Sight?
Is it thy Spirit, that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my Deeds to pry;
To find out Shames and Idle Hours in me,
The Scope and Tenure of thy Jealousy?
O! no, thy Love tho much, is not so great,
It is my Love, that keeps mine Eye awake;
Mine own true Love, that doth my Rest defeat,
To play the Watch-man ever for thy sake.
  For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake else-where,
  From me far off, with others all too near.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXI
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
When you shall hear the surly, sullen Bell
Give Warning to the World, that I am fled
From this vile World with vilest Worms to dwell.
Nay if you read this Line, remember not
The Hand, that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet Thoughts wou'd be forgot,
If thinking on me then, should make you woe.
O! if (I say) you look upon this Verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with Clay,
Do not so much as my poor Name rehearse,
But let your Love even with my Life decay;
  Least the wise World should look into your Moan,
  And mock you with me, after I am gone. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXII
O! least the World should task you to recite,
What Merit liv'd in me, that you should love;
After my Death (dear Love!) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some vertuous Lye,
To do more for me now, than mine own Desert,
And hang more Praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard Truth wou'd willingly impart.
O! least your true Love may seem false in this,
That you for Love speak well of me untrue;
My Name be buried where my Body is,
And live no more to shame nor me, nor you:
  For I am sham'd by that, which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXIV
But be contented, when that fell Arrest,
Without all Bail, shall carry me away:

My Life hath in this Line some Interest,
Which for Memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review,
The very Part was consecrate to thee:
The Earth can have but Earth, which is his due;
My Sprite is thine the better Part of me.
So then thou hast but lost the Dregs of Life,
The Prey of Worms, my Body being dead;
The Coward Conquest of a Wretches Knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
  The Worth of that, is that which it contains,
  And that is this, and this with thee remains. Volume 7: Sonnet LXX
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy Defect,
For Slanders Mark was ever yet the Fair;
The Ornament of Beauty is suspect,
A Crow that flies in Heaven's sweetest Air.
So thou be good, Slander doth but approve
Their Worth the greater being woo'd of Time;
For Canker Vice the sweetest Buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained Prime.
Thou hast past by the Ambush of young Days,
Either not assail'd, or Victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy Praise cannot be so thy Praise,
To tie up Envy, evermore inlarg'd;
  If some suspect of Ill, mask not thy Show,
  Then thou alone Kingdoms of Hearts shouldst owe.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXX
O how I faint, when I of you do write!
Knowing a better Spirit doth use your Name,
And in the Praise thereof spends all his Might,
To make me tongue-ty'd speaking of your Fame.
But since your Worth (wide as the Ocean is)
The humble as the proudest Sail doth bear,
My saucy Bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad Main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest Help will hold me up a-float,
Whilst he upon your soundless Deep doth ride;
Or (being wrackt) I am a worthless Boat,
He of tall Building, and of goodly Pride.
  Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
  The worst was this, my Love was my Decay. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXI
Or shall I live your Epitaph to make?
Or you survive when I in Earth am rotten?
From hence your Memory Death cannot take,
Although in me each Part will be forgotten.
Your Name from hence immortal Life shall have,
Tho I (once gone) to all the World must dye;
The Earth can yield me but a common Grave,
When you intombed in Mens Eyes shall lie;
Your Monument shall be my gentle Verse,
Which Eyes not yet created, shall o'er-read;
And Tongues to be, your Being shall rehearse,
When all the Breathers of this World are dead;
  You still shall live (such Vertue hath my Pen)
  Where Breath most breathes, e'en in the Mouths of Men.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXVI
Let me not to the Marriage of true Minds
Admit Impediments; Love is not Love,
Which alters when it Alteration finds,
Or bends with the Remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever fixed Mark,
That looks on Tempests and is never shaken;
It is the Star to every wandring Bark,
Whose Worth's unknown, altho his Height be taken.
Love's not Time's Fool, tho rosie Lips and Cheeks
Within his bending Sickle's Compass come;
Love alters not with his brief Hours and Weeks,
But bears it out even to the Edge of Doom.
  If this be Error, and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no Man ever loved. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXII
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore may'st without Attaint o'er-look
The dedicated Words which Writers use
Of their fair Subject, blessing every Book.
Thou art as fair in Knowledge as in Hew.
Finding thy Worth a Limit past my Praise,
And therefore are inforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher Stamp of the time-bettering Days;
And do so love, yet when they have devis'd
What strained Touches Rhetorick can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd,
In true plain Words, by thy true-telling Friend.
  And their gross Painting might be better us'd,
  Where Cheeks need Blood; in thee it is abus'd.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIII
I never saw, that you did Painting need,
And therefore to you Fair no Painting set.
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed
The barren tender of a Poet's Debt:
And therefore have I slept in your Report;
That you your self being extant well might show,
How far a modern Quill doth come too short,
Speaking of Worth, what Worth in you doth grow.
This Silence of my Sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my Glory, being dumb;
For I impair not Beauty being mute,
When others wou'd give Life, and bring a Tomb.
  There lives more Life in one of your fair Eyes,
  Than both your Poets can in Praise devise. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIV
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 Penurie 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 Counter-part shall fame his Writ,
Making him still admir'd every where.
  You to your beauteous Blessing add a Curse,
  Being fond of Praise, which makes your Praises worse. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXV
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 polisht 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 hind-most) holds his Rank before:
  Then others, for the breath of Words, respect
  Me for my dumb Thoughts, speaking in Effect. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVI
Was it the proudfull 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't I Matter, that infeebl'd mine. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVII
Farewel, 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.
Thy self 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, but waking no such matter. Volume 7: Poem XX
As it fell upon a Day,
In the merry Month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant Shade,
Which 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 Pitty:
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, 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 mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes Pity on thy Pain;
Sensless Trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless Bears, they will not chear 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 easie, 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 farewel 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 awake, 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.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVIII
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And place my Merit in the Eye of Scorn,
Upon thy Side, against thy self I'll fight,
And prove thee Vertuous, 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 my self I doe.
Doing thee Vantage, double vantage me.
  Such is my Love, to thee I so belong,
  That for thy Right, my self will bear all Wrong. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIX
Say that thou didst forsake me for some Fault,
And I will comment upon that Offence;
Speak of my Lameness, and I straight will halt;
Against thy Reasons making no Defence.
Thou canst not (Love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a a Form upon desired Change,
As I'll my self disgrace; knowing thy Will,
I will Acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from thy Walks and in 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 my self I'll vow Debate,
  For I must ne'er Love him, whom thou dost Hate. Volume 7: Sonnet XC
Then Hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now,
Now while the World is bent my Deeds to cross;

Joyn with the Spight of Fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-Loss:
Ah! do not, when my Heart hath 'scapt 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 Spight;
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. Volume 7: Sonnet XCI
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 Mens Pride I boast.
  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
  All this away, and me most Wretched make.

Volume 7: Sonnet XCII
But do thy worst to steal thy self 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 mayst be False, and yet I know it not. Volume 7: Sonnet XCIII
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived Husband; so Love's Face
May still seem Love to me, tho' 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 manies Looks 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;
Whate'er thy Thoughts, or thy Heart's workings be,
Thy Looks shall nothing thence but Sweetness tell.
  How like Eve's Apple doth thy Beauty grow,
  If thy sweet Vertue answer not thy Show?

Volume 7: Sonnet XCIV
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 Stewards of their Excellence.
The Summer's Flower is to the Summer sweet,
Tho' to it self it only live and die;
But if that Flower with base Infection meet,
The basest Weed out-braves his Dignity:
  For sweetest things turn sowerest by their Deeds,
  Lillies that fester, smell far worse than Weeds. Volume 7: Sonnet XCV
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 choose 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.

Volume 7: Sonnet XCVII
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 Bareness every where?
And yet this Time remov'd was Summer's Time;
The teeming Autumn big with rich Increase,
Bearing the wanton Burthen 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 un-father'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 Winters near. Volume 7: Sonnet XCVIII
From you have I been absent in the Spring,
When proud py'd April, drest in all his Trim,
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 Smell
Of different Flowers in Odour and in Hew,
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 Lillies 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. Volume 7: Sonnet XCIX
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 grosly dy'd:
The Lilly 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 had annext thy Breath;
But for his Theft, in Pride of all his Growth,
A vengeful Canker eat him up to Death.
  More Flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
  But Sweet, or Colour, it had stol'n from thee. Volume 7: Sonnet C
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,
Darkning thy Power to lend base Subjects Light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle Numbers, Time so idely 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 wasts Life,
  So thou prevent'st his Scithe, and crooked Knife. Volume 7: Sonnet CI
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 fixt;
Beauty no Pencil, Beauty's Truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixt.
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 gilded 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. Volume 7: Sonnet CIV
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 Forests 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 Hew, which methinks, still does stand,
Hath Motion, and mine Eye may be deceiv'd;
  For fear of which, hear this, thou Age unbred,
  E'er you was born, was Beauty's Summer dead. Volume 7: Sonnet CV
Let not my Love be call'd Idolatry,
Nor my Beloved as an Idol Show;

Since all alike my Songs and Praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so:
Kind is my Love to day, to morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous Excellence;
Therefore my Verse to Constancy confin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out Difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my Argument;
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other Words;
And in this Change is my Invention spent,
Three Theams in one, which wondrous Scope affords.
  Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone;
  Which three, till now, have never sate in one. Volume 7: Sonnet CVI
When in the Chronicle of wasted Time,
I see Descriptions of the fairest Wights,
And Beauty making beautiful old Rhime,
In praise of Ladies dead, and lovely Knights:
Then in the Blazon of sweet Beauty's best,
Of Hand, of Foot, of Lip, of Eye, of Brow,
I see their antick Pen would have exprest
E'en such a Beauty as you master now.
So all their Praises are but Prophecies
Of this our Time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining Eyes,
They had not still enough your Worth to sing:
  For we who now behold these present Days,
  Have Eyes to wonder, but lack Tongues to praise.

Volume 7: Sonnet CII
My Love is strengthned, tho' more weak in seeming;
I love not less, tho' less the Show appear:
That Love is merchandiz'd, whose rich Esteeming
The Owner's Tongue doth publish every where.
Our Love was new, and then but in the Spring,
When I was wont to greet it in my Lays;
As Philomel in Summer's Front doth sing,
And stops his 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 Musick burthens every 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. Volume 7: Sonnet CIII
Alack! what Poverty my Muse brings forth!
That having such a Scope to show her Pride,
The Argument all bare, is of more Worth,
Than when it hath my added Praise beside.
Oh! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your Glass, and there appears a Face,
That overgoes my blunt Invention quite,
Dulling my Lines, and doing me Disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To marr the Subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my Verses tend,
Than of your Graces, and your Gifts to tell;
  And more, much more, than in my Verse can sit,
  Your own Glass shows you, when you look in it.

Volume 7: Sonnet CIX
Oh! never say that I was false of Heart,
Tho' Absence seem'd my Flame to qualify;
As easie might I from my self depart,
As from my Soul which in my Breast doth lie.
That is my Home of Love; if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again
Just to the Time, not with the Time exchang'd;
So that my self bring Water for my Stain.
Never believe, tho' in my Nature reign'd
All Frailties, that besiege all Kinds of Blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy Sum of Good:
  For nothing this wide Universe I call,
  Save thou, my Rose in it, thou art my All. Volume 7: Sonnet CX
Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there;
And made my self a Motley to the View;
Gor'd mine own Thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear;
Made old Offences of Affections new.
Most true it is, that I have look'd on Truth
Ascance and strangely: But by all above,
These Blenches gave my Heart another Youth,
And worse Assays prov'd thee my best of Love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no End,
Mine Appetite I never more will grind
On newer Proof, to try an older Friend,
A God in Love, to whom I am confin'd.
  Then give me welcome, next my Heaven the best,
  E'en to thy pure and most most loving Breast.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXI
Oh! For my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty Goddess of my harmless Deeds,
That did not better for my Life provide,
Than publick Means which publick Manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my Name receives a Brand,
And almost thence my Nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the Dyer's Hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst like a willing Patient I will drink
Potions of Eysel 'gainst my strong Infection,
No Bitterness, that I will bitter think,
Nor double Penance to correct Correction.
  Pity me then, dear Friend, and I assure ye,
  E'en that your Pity is enough to cure me. Volume 7: Sonnet CXII
Your Love and Pity doth th' Impression fill,
Which vulgar Scandal stamp'd upon my Brow:
For what care I who calls me well, or ill,
So you o'er-skreen my bad, my good allow?
You are my all, the World and I must strive
To know my Shames, and Praises from your Tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd Sense or changes right or wrong,
In so profound Abysme I throw all Care
Of others Voices, that my Adders Sense
To Critic, and to Flatterer stopped are:
Mark how with my Neglect I do dispense.
  You are so strongly in my Purpose bred,
  That all the World besides me, thinks I'm dead.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXIII
Since I left you, mine Eye is in my Mind;
And that which governs me to go about,
Doth part his Function, and is partly blind;
Seems seeing, but effectually is out.
For it no Form delivers to the Heart,
Of Birds, or Flowers, or Shape, which it doth lack;
Of his quick Objects hath the Mind no Part,
Nor his own Vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud'st, or gentlest Sight,
The most sweet Favour, or deformedst Creature,
The Mountain or the Sea, the Day or Night,
The Crow, or Dove, it shapes them to your Feature:
  Incapable of more, repleat with you,
  My most true Mind thus maketh mine untrue. Volume 7: Sonnet CXIV
Or whether doth my Mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the Monarch's Plague, this Flattery?
Or whether shall I say mine Eye saith true,
And that your Love taught it this Alchymy?
To make of Monsters, and things indigest,
Such Cherubims as your sweet self resemble;
Creating every Bad a perfect Best,
As fast as Objects to his Beams assemble?
Oh! 'tis the first, 'tis Flatt'ry in my seeing,
And my great Mind most kindly drinks it up;
Mine Eye well knows what with his Gust is 'greeing,
And to his Palat doth prepare the Cup:
  If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser Sin,
  That mine Eye loves it, and doth first begin. Volume 7: Sonnet CXV
Those Lines that I before have writ, do lye,
E'en those that said I could not love you dearer:

Yet then my Judgment knew no Reason why,
My most full Flame should afterwards burn clearer,
But reck'ning Time, whose million Accidents
Creep in 'twixt Vows, and change Decrees of Kings,
Tann sacred Beauty, blunt the sharp'st Intents,
Divert strong Minds to th' Course of alt'ring Things.
Alas! Why fearing of Time's Tyranny,
Might I not then say, now I love you best,
When I was certain o'er Incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
  Love is a Babe; then might I not say so,
  To give full Growth to that, which still doth grow? Volume 7: Sonnet CXVII
Accuse me thus; That I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great Deserts repay;
Forgot upon your dearest Love to call,
Whereto all Bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown Minds,
And given to Time your own dear-purchas'd Right;
That I have hoisted Sail to all the Winds,
Which should transport me farthest from your Sight:
Book both my Wilfulness and Error down,
And on just Proof, Surmise, Accumulate;
Bring me within the Level of your Frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened Hate:
  Since my Appeal says, I did strive to prove
  The Constancy and Vertue of your Love. Volume 7: Sonnet CXVIII
Like as, to make our Appetites more keen,
With eager Compounds we our Palate urge;

As, to prevent our Maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun Sickness, when we purge:
Even so being full of your near cloying Sweetness,
To bitter Sauces did I frame my Feeding;
And sick of Welfare, found a kind of Meetness,
To be diseas'd e'er that there was true needing.
Thus Policy in Love t' anticipate
The Ills that were not, grew to Faults assured,
And brought to Medicine a healthful State,
Which rank of Goodness would by Ill be cured.
  But thence I learn, and find the Lesson true,
  Drugs poison him, that so fell sick of you. Volume 7: Sonnet CXIX
What Potions have I drunk of Syren Tears,
Distill'd from Limbecks foul as Hell within?
Applying Fears to Hopes, and Hopes to Fears,
Still losing when I saw my self to win.
What wretched Errors hath my Heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never?
How have mine Eyes out of their Spheres been fitted,
In the Distraction of this madding Feaver?
O! Benefit of Ill! now I find true,
That better is by Evil still made better;
And ruin'd Love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
  So I return Rebuke to my Content,
  And gain by Ills thrice more than I have spent.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXX
That you were once unkind befriends me now;
And for that Sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my Transgression bow,
Unless my Nerves were Brass, or hammer'd Steel.
For if you were by my Unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y' have past a Hell of Time;
And I a Tyrant have no Leisure taken,
To weigh how once I suffered in your Crime.
O! that our Night of Woe might have remembred
My deepest Sense, how hard true Sorrow hits!
And soon to you, as you to me then tendred
The humble Salve, which wounded Bosoms fits!
  But that your Trespass now becomes a Fee,
  Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXI
Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives Reproach of Being
And the just Pleasure's lost, which is so deemed,
Not by our Feeling, but by others Seeing.
For why should others false adulterate Eyes
Give Salutation to my sportive Blood?
Or on my Frailties, why are frailer Spies;
Which in their Wills count bad, what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my Abuses, reckon up their own;
I may be streight, though they themselves be bevel,
By their rank Thoughts my Deeds must not be shown;
  Unless this general Evil they maintain,
  All Men are bad, and in their Badness reign.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXXII
Thy Gift, thy Tables, are within my Brain
Full character'd with a lasting Memory,
Which shall above that idle Rank remain,
Beyond all Date, even to Eternity;
Or at the least, so long as Brain and Heart
Have Faculty by Nature to subsist;
Till each to raz'd Oblivion yield his Part,
Of thee thy Record never can be mist.
That poor Retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I Tallies thy dear Love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those Tables, that receive thee more.
  To keep an Adjunct to remember thee,
  Were to import Forgetfulness in me. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXIII
No, Time! thou shalt not boast that I do change
Thy Pyramids built up with newer Might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but Dressings of a former Sight.
Our Dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is Old;
And rather make them born to our Desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy Registers and thee I both defie,
Not wondring, at the Present, nor the Past;
For thy Records, and what we see doth lye,
Made more or less by thy continual Haste.

  This I do vow, and this shall ever be;
  I will be true, despight thy Scithe and Thee. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXIV
If my dear Love were but the Child of State,
It might for Fortune's Bastard be unfather'd;
As subject to Time's Love, or to Time's Hate,
Weeds among Weeds, or Flowers with Flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from Accident,
It suffers not in smiling Pomp, nor falls
Under the Blow of thralled Discontent;
Whereto th' inviting Time our Fashion calls:
It fears not Policy, that Heretic,
Which works on Leases of short numbred Hours:
But all alone stands hugely Politick,
That it nor grows with Heat, nor drowns with Showers.
  To this I Witness call the Fools of Time,
  Which die for Goodness, who have liv'd for Crime. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXV
Wer't ought to me, I bore the Canopy,
With my Extern the outward Honouring;
Or laid great Bases for Eternity,
Which proves more short, than Waste or Ruining?
Have I not seen Dwellers on Form and Favour,
Lose all, and more, by paying too much Rent,
For Compound-sweet, foregoing simple Savour;
Pitiful Thrivers, in their Gazing spent!

No, let me be obsequious in thy Heart,
And take thou my Oblation, poor, but free,
Which is not mixt with Seconds, knows no Art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
  Hence thou suborn'd Informer! a true Soul,
  When most impeacht, stands least in thy Controul. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXVIII
How oft, when thou thy Musick, Musick play'st,
Upon that blessed Wood, whose Motion sounds
With thy sweet Fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The witty Concord, that mine Ear confounds;
Do I envy those Jacks, that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender Inward of thy Hand?
Whilst my poor Lipps, which should that Harvest reap,
At the Wood's Boldness by thee blushing stand.
To be so tickled, they would change their State
And Situation with those dancing Chipps,
O'er whom thy Fingers walk with gentle Gate,
Making dead Wood more blest than living Lipps.
  Since saucy Jacks so happy are in this,
  Give them thy Fingers, me thy Lipps to kiss. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXIX
Th' Expence of Spirit in a Waste of Shame,
Is Lust in Action; and till Action, Lust
Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of Blame,
Savage, extream, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Injoy'd no sooner, but despised streight,
Past Reason hunted, and no sooner had,

Past Reason hated as a swallowed Bait,
On purpose laid to make the Taker mad;
Mad in Pursuit, and in Possession so;
Had, having, and in quest, to have extream;
A Bliss in Proof, and prov'd a very Woe;
Before a Joy propos'd, behind a Dream.
  All this the World well knows, yet none knows well
  To shun the Heaven, that leads Men to this Hell. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXVII
In the old Age Black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not Beauty's Name:
But now is Black Beauty's successive Heir,
And Beauty slander'd with a Bastard Shame.
For since each Hand hath put on Nature's Power,
Fairing the Foul with Art's false borrow'd Face,
Sweet Beauty hath no Name, no holy Bower,
But is prophan'd, if not lives in Disgrace.
Therefore my Mistress' Eyes are Raven-black,
Her Eyes so suited, that they Mourners seem,
At such who not born fair no Beauty lack,
Slandering Creation with a false Esteem;
  Yet so they mourn becoming of their Woe,
  That every Tongue says, Beauty shou'd look so. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXX
My Mistress' Eyes are nothing like the Sun;
Coral is far more red, than her Lipps red.
If Snow be white, why then her Breasts are dun;
If Hairs be Wires, black Wires grow on her Head.
I have seen Roses, damask, red, and white,
But no such Roses see I in her Cheeks;
And in some Perfumes is there more Delight,
Than in the Breath that from my Mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That Musick hath a far more pleasing Sound.
I grant I never saw a Goddess go;
My Mistress when she walks treads on the Ground;
  And yet, by Heaven, I think my Love as rare,
  As any She bely'd with false Compare. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXI
Thou art as tyranous, yes so thou art,
As those whose Beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st, to my dear doating Heart,
Thou art the fairest, and most precious Jewel:
Yet in good Faith some say, that thee behold,
Thy Face hath not the Power to make Love groan.
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Altho' I swear it to my self alone.
And to be sure, that is not false I swear,
A thousand Groans, but thinking on thy Face,
One on another's Neck do witness bear,
Thy Black is fairest in my Judgment's Place.
  In nothing art thou black save in thy Deeds,
  And thence this Slander, as I think, proceeds. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXII
Thine Eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy Heart torments me with Disdain,
Have put on black, and loving Mourners be,
Looking with pretty Ruth upon my Pain.
And truly not the Morning Sun of Heaven
Better becomes the grey Cheeks of the East;
Nor that full Star that ushers in the Even,
Doth half that Glory to the sober West;
As those two mourning Eyes become thy Face.
O! let it then as well beseem thy Heart
To mourn for me, since Mourning doth thee grace,
And sute thy Pity like in every Part.
  Then will I swear, Beauty her self is black,
  And all they foul, that thy Complexion lack.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXIII
Beshrew that Heart, that makes my Heart to groan
For that deep Wound it gives my Friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But Slave to Slavery my sweet Friend must be?
Me from my self thy cruel Eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast ingrossed;
Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken,
A Torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.
Prison my Heart in thy steel Bosom's Ward;
But then my Friend's Heart let my poor Heart bail:
Who e'er keeps me, let my Heart be his Guard,
Thou canst not then use Rigor in my Jail.
  And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
  Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXIV
So now I have confest, that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgag'd to thy Will;
My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to me, my Comfort still.
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free;
For thou art covetous, and he is kind:
He learn'd but Surety-like to write for me
Under that Bond, that him as fast doth bind.
The Statute of thy Beauty thou wilt take,
Thou Usurer, that put'st forth all to Use,
And sue a Friend, came Debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind Abuse.
  Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me;
  He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXV
Whoever hath her Wish, thou hast thy Will;
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus
More than enough, am I, that vex thee still,
To thy sweet Will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose Will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my Will in thine?
Shall Will in others seem right gracious,
And in my Will no fair Acceptance shine?
The Sea all Water, yet receives Rain still,
And in Abundance addeth to his Store;
So thou being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One Will of mine to make thy large Will more.
  Let no unkind, no fair Beseechers kill,
  Think all but one, and me in that one Will. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXVI
If thy Soul check thee, that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind Soul, that I was thy Will;
And Will thy Soul knows is admitted there,
Thus far for Love, my Love-suit sweet fulfil.
Will will fulfil the Treasure of thy Love;
I fill it full with Wills, and my Will one;
In things of great receipt with ease we prove,
Among a Number one is reckon'd none.
Then in the Number let me pass untold,
Tho' in thy Stores Account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That Nothing-me, a Some-thing sweet to thee.
  Make but my Name thy Love, and love that still,
  And then thou lov'st me, for my Name is Will.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXVII
Thou blind Fool Love, what dost thou to mine Eyes,
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what Beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If Eyes corrupt by over-partial Looks,
Be anchor'd in the Bay where all Men ride,
Why of Eyes Falshood hast thou forged Hooks,
Whereto the Judgment of my Heart is ty'd?
Why should my Heart think that a several Plot,
Which my Heart knows the wide World's common Place?
Or mine Eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair Truth upon so foul a Face;
  In things right true my Heart and Eyes have err'd,
  And to this false Plague are they now transferr'd. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXIX
O! call not me to justifie the Wrong,
That thy Unkindness lays upon my Heart!
Wound me not with thine Eye, but with thy Tongue,
Use Power with Power, and slay me not by Art:
Tell me thou lovest else-where; but in my Sight,
Dear Heart, forbear to glance thine Eye aside.
What needst thou wound with Cunning, when thy Might
Is more than my o'er-prest Defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee; Ah! my Love well knows,
Her pretty Looks have been my Enemies;
And therefore from my Face she turns my Foes,
That they else-where might dart their Injuries.
  Yet do not so, but since I am near slain,
  Kill me out-right with Looks, and rid my Pain. Volume 7: Sonnet CXL
Be wise, as thou art cruel, do not press
My Tongue-ty'd Patience with too much Disdain:

Least Sorrow lend me Words, and Words express
The Manner of my Pity-wanting Pain.
If I might teach thee Wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet love to tell me so;
As testy Sick-men, when their Deaths be near,
No News but Health from their Physicians know.
For if I should despair I should grow mad,
And in my Madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wresting World is grown so bad,
Mad Sland'rers by mad Ears believed be.
  That I may not be so, nor thou bely'd,
  Bear thine Eyes straight, tho' thy proud Heart go wide. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLI
In Faith, I do not love thee with mine Eyes;
For they in thee a thousand Errors note:
But 'tis my Heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despight of View is pleas'd to dote.
Nor are mine Ears with thy Tongue's Tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling to base Touches prone;
Nor Taste, nor Smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual Feast with thee alone.
But my five Wits, nor my five Senses can
Disswade one foolish Heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the Likeness of a Man,
Thy proud Heart's Slave and vassal Wretch to be:
  Only my Plague thus far I count my Gain,
  That she that makes me sin, rewards me Pain. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLII
Love is my Sin, and my dear Vertue Hate;
Hate of Sin, grounded on a sinful Loving.
O! but with mine compare thou thine own State,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or if it do, not from those Lips of thine,
That have profan'd their Scarlet Ornaments,
And seal'd false Bonds of Love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others Beds, Revenues of their Rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those,
Whom thine Eyes woo, as mine importune thee.
Root Pity in thy Heart, that when it grows,
Thy Pity may deserve to pity'd be.
  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
  By self Example mayst thou be deny'd! Volume 7: Sonnet CXLIII
Lo! as a careful Huswife runs to catch
One of her feather'd Creatures broke away,
Sets down her Babe and makes all swift Dispatch,
In pursuit of the Thing she would have stay;
Whilst her neglected Child holds her in Chace,
Cries to catch her, whose busie Care is bent,
To follow that, which flies before her Face,
Not prizing her poor Infant's Discontent:
So runst thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy Babe chase thee a-far behind;
But if thou catch thy Hope, turn back to me,
And play the Mother's Part, kiss me, be kind.
  So will I pray that thou may'st have thy Will,
  If thou turn back, and my loud Crying still.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXLV
Those Lips, that Love's own Hand did make,
Breath'd forth the Sound, that said I hate,
To me that languisht for her Sake.
But when she saw my woful State,
Strait in her Heart did Mercy come,
Chiding that Tongue, that ever sweet,
Was us'd in giving gentle Doom;
And taught it thus a-new to greet:
I hate she altered with an End,
That follow'd it, as gentle Day
Doth follow Night, who like a Fiend,
From Heaven to Hell is flown away.
  I hate, from Hate away she threw,
  And sav'd my Life, saying not you. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLVI
Poor Soul! the Center of my sinful Earth,
My sinful Earth these rebel Powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer Dearth,
Painting thy outward Walls in costly Clay?
Why so large Cost, having so short a Lease,
Dost thou upon thy faded Mansion spend?
Shall Worms, Inheritors of this Excess,
Eat up thy Charge? Is this thy Body's End?
Then Soul, live thou upon thy Servant's Loss;
And let that pine to aggravate thy Store:
Buy Terms Divine in selling Hours of Dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
  So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on Men,
  And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXLVII
My Love is as a Fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the Disease;
Feeding on that, which doth preserve the Ill,
Th' uncertain sickly Appetite to please.
My Reason the Physician to my Love,
Angry that his Prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve.
Desire is Death, which Physick did except.
Past Cure I am, now Reason is past Cure,
And frantick mad with ever-more Unrest;
My Thoughts and my Discourse as mad Mens are,
At random from the Truth vainly exprest.
  For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
  Who art as black as Hell, as dark as Night. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLVIII
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my Head,
Which have no Correspondence with true Sight!
Or if they have, where is my Judgment fled,
That censures falsly what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false Eyes dote,
What means the World to say it is not so?
If it be not, then Love doth well denote,
Love's Eye is not so true as all Mens. No,
How can it? O how can Love's Eye be true,
That is so vext with Watching and with Tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my View;
The Sun it self sees not, till Heaven clears.
  O! cunning Love, with Tears thou keepst me blind,
  Least Eyes well-seeing thy foul Faults should find.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXLIX
Canst thou, O! cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against my self with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
All of my self, all, Tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hatest thou, that do I call my Friend,
On whom frown'st thou, that I do fawn upon?
Nay if thou lowr'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon my self with present Moan?
What Merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy Service to despise?
When all my best doth worship thy Defect,
Commanded by the Motion of thine Eyes.
  But, Love, hate on; for now I know thy Mind,
  Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind. Volume 7: Sonnet CL
Oh! from what Power hast thou this powerful Might,
With Insufficiency my Heart to sway;
To make me give the Lye to my true Sight,
And swear, that Brightness doth not grace the Day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy Deeds,
There is such Strength and Warrantise of Skill,
That in my Mind thy worst all bests 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 Unworthiness rais'd Love in me,
  More worthy I, to be belov'd of thee.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXVIII
So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse,
And found such fair Assistance in my Verse,
As every Alien Pen hath got my Use,
And under thee, their Poesie disperse.
Thine Eyes that taught the Dumb on high to sing,
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 dost but mend the Style,
And Arts with thy sweet Graces graced be:
  But thou art all my Art, and dost advance
  As high as Learning, my rude Ignorance. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXIX
Whilst I alone did call upon thy Aid,
My Verse alone had all thy gentle Grace:
But now my gracious Numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give another Place.
I grant (sweet Love!) thy lovely Argument
Deserves the Travel of a worthier Pen;
Yet what of thee thy Poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee agen:
He lends thee Vertue, and he stole 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.
  Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
  Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXIII
That Time of Year thou may'st 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 sweet Birds sang.
In me thou seest the Twilights of such Day,
As after Sun-set fadeth in the West;
Which by and by black Night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in Rest.
In me thou seest the Glowing of such Fire,
That on the Ashes of his Youth doth lie,
As the Death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that, which it was nourish'd by.
  'Tis thou perceiv'st, which makes thy Love more strong,
  To love that well, which thou must leave e'er long. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXVII
Thy Glass will shew 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 Glass will truly show,
Of mouthed Graves will give the Memory.
Thou by thy Dial's shady Stealth may'st know
Time's theevish Progress to Eternity.
Look what thy Memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste Blacks, and thou shalt find
Those Children nurst, deliver'd from thy Brain,
To take a new Acquaintance of thy Mind.
  These Offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
  Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy Book.

Volume 7: Sonnet CVII
Not mine own Fears, nor the prophetic Soul
Of the wide World, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the Lease of my true Love controul,
Suppos'd as Forfeit to a confin'd Doom.
The mortal Moon hath her Eclipse endur'd,
And the sad Augurs mock their own Presage:
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And Peace proclaims Olives of endless Age.
Now with the Drops of this most balmy Time,
My Love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes;
Since spight of him, I'll live in this poor Rhime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless Tribes.
  And thou in this shalt find thy Monument,
  When Tyrants Crests, and Tombs of Brass are spent. Volume 7: Sonnet CVIII
What's in the Brain, that Ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true Spirit?
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my Love, or thy dear Merit?
Nothing, sweet Love! but yet like Prayers divine,
I must each Day say o'er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
E'en as when first I hallow'd thy fair Name.
So that eternal Love, in Love's fresh Case,
Weighs not the Dust and Injuries of Age,
Nor gives to necessary Wrinkles Place,
But makes Antiquity for aye his Page;
  Finding the first Conceit of Love there bred,
  Where Time, and outward Form would shew it dead.

Volume 7: Sonnet CLI
Love is too young to know what Conscience is;
Yet who knows not, Conscience is born of Love
Then, gentle Cheater, urge not my Amiss,
Least guilty of my Faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler Part to my gross Body's Treason.
My Soul doth tell my Body, that he may
Triumph in Love, Flesh stays no farther Reason:
But rising at thy Name, doth point out thee,
As his triumphant Prize; proud of this Pride,
He is contented thy poor Drudge to be,
To stand in thy Affairs, fall by thy Side.
  No want of Conscience hold it, that I call
  Her Love, for whose dear Love I rise and fall. Volume 7: Sonnet CLII
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn to me, Love-swearing;
In Act thy Bed-vow broke and new Faith torn,
In Vowing new Hate after new Love bearing.
But why of two Oaths Breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most;
For all my Vows are Oaths but to misuse thee;
And all my honest Faith in thee is lost:
For I have sworn deep Oaths of thy deep Kindness;
Oaths of thy Love, thy Truth, thy Constancy;
And to enlighten thee, gave Eyes to Blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
  For I have sworn thee Fair: more perjur'd I,
  To swear against the Truth so foul a Lye.

Volume 7: The Tale of Cephalus and Procris
Beneath Hymettus Hill well-cloth'd with Flowers,
A holy Well her soft Springs gently pours:
Where stands a Cops, in which the Wood-Nymphs shrove,
(No Wood) it rather seems a slender Grove.
The humble Shrubs and Bushes hide the Grass,
Here Lawrel, Rosemary, here Myrtle was:
Here grew thick Box, and Tam'risk, that excells,
And made a meer Confusion of sweet Smells:
The Triffoly, the Pine; and on this Heath
Stands many a Plant that feels cool Zephyrs Breath.
Here the young Cephalus tyr'd in the Chace,
Us'd his Repose and Rest, alone t' embrace;
And where he sat, these Words he would repeat,
Come Air, sweet Air, come cool my mighty Heat!
Come gentle Air, I never will forsake thee,
I'll hug thee thus, and in my Bosom take thee.
Some double-duteous Tell-tale hapt to hear this,
And to his jealous Wife doth straight-way bear this.
Which Procris hearing, and withal the Name
Of Air, sweet Air, which he did oft proclaim;
She stands confounded, and amaz'd with Grief,
By giving this fond Tale too sound Belief:
And looks, as do the Trees by Winter nipt,
Whom Frost and Cold of Fruit and Leaves half stript.
She bends like Corveil, when too rank it grows,
Or when the ripe Fruits clog the Quince-tree Boughs.
But when she comes t' her self, she tears
Her Garments, her Eyes, her Cheeks, and Hairs;
And then she starts, and to her Feet applies her,
Then to the Woods (stark Woad) in rage she hies her.

Approaching some-what near, her Servants they
By her Appointment in a Valley stay;
Whilst she alone with creeping Paces steals
To take the Strumpet, whom her Lord conceals.
What mean'st thou, Procris, in these Groves to hide thee?
What rage of Love doth to this Madness guide thee?
Thou hop'st the Air he calls, in all her Bravery,
Will straight approach, and thou shalt see their Knavery.
And now again it irks her to be there,
For such a killing Sight her Heart will tear.
No Truce can with her troubled Thoughts dispense;
She would not now be there, nor yet be thence.
Behold the Place, her jealous Mind foretells,
Here do they use to meet, and no where else:
The Grass is laid, and see their true Impression;
E'en here they lay: Ay, here was their Transgression.
A Body's Print she saw, it was his Seat,
Which makes her faint Heart 'gainst her Ribs to beat.
Phœbus the lofty Eastern Hill had scal'd,
And all moist Vapours from the Earth exhal'd:
Now in his Noon-tide point he shineth bright;
It was the middle Hour, 'twixt Noon and Night.
Behold young Cephalus draws to the Place,
And with the Fountain Water sprinks his Face:
Procris is hid; upon the Grass he lies,
And come, sweet Zephyr, come sweet Air, he cries.
She sees her Error now from where he stood,
Her Mind returns to her, and her fresh Blood;
Among the Shrubs and Briers she moves and rustles,
And the injurious Boughs away she justles;
Intending as he lay, there to repose him,
Nimbly to run, and in her Arms inclose him.

He quickly casts his Eye upon the Bush,
Thinking therein some savage Beast did rush;
His Bow he bends, and a keen Shaft he draws:
Unhappy Man, what dost thou! Stay, and pause;
It is no brute Beast thou would'st reave of Life;
O! Man unhappy! thou hast slain thy Wife!
Oh! Heaven, she cries, Oh! help me, I am slain;
Still doth thy Arrow in my Wound remain:
Yet though by timeless Fate my Bones here lie,
It glads me most, that I no Cuck-quean die.
Her Breath (thus in the Arms she most affected)
She breaths into the Air (before suspected)
The whilst he lifts her Body from the Ground,
And with his Tears doth wash her bleeding Wound. Volume 7: Sonnet CLIII
Cupid laid by his Brand and fell asleep;
A Maid of Dian's this Advantage found;
And his love-kindling Fire did quickly steep
In a cold Vally-Fountain of that Ground:
Which borrow'd from his holy Fire of Love,
A dateless lively Heat still to endure,
And grew a seething Bath, which yet Men prove,
Against strange Maladies a sovereign Cure.
But at my Mistress' Eyes Love's Brand new fired,
The Boy for Trial needs would touch my Breast;
I sick withall the Help of Bath desired,
And thither hy'd a sad distemper'd Guest;
  But found no Cure, the Bath for my help lyes
  Where Cupid got new Fire, my Mistress' Eyes. Volume 7: Sonnet CLIV
The little Love-God lying once asleep,
Laid by his Side his Heart in flaming Brand,

Whilst many Nymphs that vow'd chast Life to keep,
Came tripping by, but in her maiden Hand,
The fairest Votary took up that Fire,
Which many Legions of true Hearts had warm'd;
And so the General of hot Desire
Was sleeping, by a Virgin Hand disarm'd.
This Brand she quenched in a cool Well by,
Which from Love's Fire took Heat perpetual,
Growing a Bath and healthful Remedy,
For Men diseas'd; but I my Mistress' Thrall
  Came there for Cure, and this by that I prove,
  Love's Fire heats Water, Water cools not Love. Volume 7: That Menelaus was the Cause of his own Wrongs
When Menelaus from his House is gone,
Poor Helen is afraid to lie alone;
And to allay these Fears (lodg'd in her Breast)
In her warm Bosom she receives her Guest.
What Madness was this? Menelaus, say:
Thou art abroad, whilst in thy House doth stay
Under the self-same Roof, thy Guest, and Love:
Mad-man! unto the Hawk thou trusts the Dove.
And who but such a Gull would give to keep
Unto the Mountain Wolf, full Folds of Sheep?
Helen is blameless, so is Paris too,
And did what thou, or I my self would do.
The Fault is thine, I tell thee to thy Face,
By limiting these Lovers Time and Place.
From thee the Seeds of all thy Wrongs are grown;
Whose Counsels have they follow'd, but thine own?
(Alack!) what should they do? Abroad thou art,
At home thou leav'st thy Guest to play thy Part.

To lie alone the poor Queen is afraid;
In the next Room an amorous Stranger staid.
Her Arms are ope t' embrace him, he falls in;
And Paris, I acquit thee of the Sin.