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A Complaints sho

Oh! for my fake do you with fortune chide
The guilty goddefs of my harmlefs 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 almoft thence my nature is fubdu'd
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilft like a willing patient I will drink
Potions of eyfel 'gainst my strong infection,
No bitternefs, that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I affure ye,
E'en that your pity is enough to cure me.

Your love and pity doth th' impreffion fill,
Which vulgar fcandal ftamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-fkreen my bad, my good allow?
You are my all, the world and I muft ftrive,
To know my fhames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That my fteel'd fenfe or changes right or wrong.
In fo profound abyfme I throw all care
Of others voices, that my adder's sense
To critick and to flatterer ftopped are:
Mark how with my neglect I do difpenfe.
You are fo ftrongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world befides me thinks I'm dead.-

Self- Flattery of her Beauty.

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 feeing, but effectually is out.

For it no form delivers to the heart

Of birds, or flower, or fhape, which it doth lack;
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vifion holds what it doth catch:
For if it fee the rud'ft or gentleft fight,

The moft fweet favour or deformedft creature,
The mountain or the fea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it fhapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,

My moft true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

eye

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I fay mine
faith true,
And that your love taught it this alchymy?
To make of monfters, and things indigeft,
Such cherubims as your fweet felf refemble;
Creating every bad a perfect beft,

As faft as objects to his beams affemble?
Oh! 'tis the first, 'tis flatt'ry in my feeing,
And my great mind moft kindly drinks it up;
Mine eye well knows what with his guft is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup.

If it be poifon'd, 'tis the leffer fin,

That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

Thofe 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 moft full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reck'ning time, whofe million accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Can facred beauty, blunt the fharp'ft intents,
Divert ftrong minds to th' courfe of alt'ring things:
Alas! why fearing of time's tyranny,

Might I not then fay, now I love you best,
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the prefent, doubting of the reft?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

A Trial of Love's Conftancy.

Accufe me thus; that I have fcanted all,
Wherein I fhould your great deferts repay,
Forgot upon your deareft 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 hoifted fails to all the winds,
Which fhould tranfport me fartheft from your fight.
Book both my wilfulness and error down,
And on juft proof furmife, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But fhoot not at me in your wakened hate:
Since my appeal fays, I did ftrive to prove
The conftancy and virtue of your love.

Like as you make your appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
As to prevent our maladies unfeen,

We ficken, to fhun fickness, when we purge:

Even fo being full of your near cloying sweetness,
To bitter fauces did I frame my feeding;

And fick of welfare, found a kind of meekness,
To be difeas'd ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, t' anticipate

The ills that were not, grew to faults affured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state,
Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured.
But thence I learn, and find the leffon true,
Drugs poifon him that fo fell fick of you.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Diftill'd from limbecks foul as hell within?
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still lofing when I faw myself to win.
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilft it hath thought itself fo blessed never?
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the diftraction of this madding fever?
Oh! benefit of ill! now I find true,
That better is by evil ftill made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more ftrong, far greater.
So I return rebuke to my content,

And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

A good Conftruction of his Love's Unkindness.

That you were once unkind befriends me now;
And for that forrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my tranfgreffion bow,
Unless my nerves were brafs or hammer'd steel,
For if you were by my unkindness fhaken,
As I by yours, y' have pafs'd a hell of time;-

And I a tyrant have no leifure taken,

To weigh how once I fuffer'd in your crime.
Oh! that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest fenfe, how hard' true forrow hits, J
And foon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble falve, which wounded bofoms fits!
But that your trefpafs now becomes a fèe,
Mine ranfoms yours, and yours muft ransom me.

Error in Opinion.

'Tis better to be vile than vile efteem'd,
When not to be, receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure loft, which is fo deem'd,
Not by our feeling, but by others feeing.
For why fhould others falfe adulterate eyes
Give falutation 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 ftreight, tho' 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.

Upon the Receipt of a Table-Book from his Mistress.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain,
Full character'd with a lafting memory,
Which fhall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the leaft, fo long as brain and hears
Have faculty by nature to fubfift;

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