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And I a tyrant have no leisure taken,
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. .
Oh! that our night of woe might have remeinbered
My deepest fenfe, how hard true forrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble salve, which wounded bofoms fits !
But that your trespass now becomes a fee,
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
'Tis better to be vile than vile efteem'd,
When not to be, receives reproach of being ;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd,
Not by our feeling, but by others seeing.
For why should others false 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;
may be streight, tho' they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evit they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.
Upon the Receipt of a Table-Book from his Miffrefsi.
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 fubfift;
Till each to razd oblivion yield his part
Of thce, thy record never can be mist.
That'poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need l tallies thy dear love to score ;
Therefore to give them from me, was I bold
To truit those tables that receive thee more :
To krep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import torgetfulness in me.
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 dretlings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foilt upon us that is old ;
And rarher make them born to pur defire,
Than think that we before have heard them told..
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present nor the past;
For thy records, and what we see doth lye,
Made more or less by thy continual hafte.
This I do vow, and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee:
If my dear love were but the child of Atate,
It might for fortune's bastard be un-father'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 heretick,
Which works on leases of thort number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politick,
That it norgrows 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.
An Intreaty for her Acceptance.
Where it ought to be, I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring;
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than walte or ruining.
Have I not seen dwellers on forn and favour,
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent
For compound sweet, foregoing simple favour?
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing (pent,
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows po art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy controul.
Upon her playing on the Virginals.
How oft when thou thy musick, musick-play'ft,
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 lips, which should that harveft reaps
At the wood's boldness, by thee blushing stand
To be fo tickled they would change their state,
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks fo- happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
Thé expence of spirit in a waste of thame,
Is luft in action ; and till action, luft
Is perjur’d, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised streight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,
Past reason hated as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Made in pursuit and in pofsefsion so,
Had, having, and in quest, to have exetreme,
A blifs in proof, and proud and every woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.
All this the world wellknows, yet none knows well
To fun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
In praise of her beauty, though black.
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 fucceflive heir,
And beauty Nander'd with a bastard shame :
For lince each hand hath put on nature's powerg:
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd; if not, lives in disgrace.
eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem, .
At such who not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false efteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look fo..
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sung.
Coral is far more red than her lips 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 there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
Thar mufick hath a far more pleafing found: :
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 fhe, bely'd with falfe compare..
Thou art tyrannous, so thou art;
As those whofe beauties proudly make them cruel:
For well thou know it-to my dear doating heart, -
Thou art the faireft, 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 fo bold,
Altho' I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear;
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy facey,