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To follow that which flies before her face ;
Not prizing her poor infant's dii content.
So run'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilft I thy babe chase thee atar 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'ít have thy Williga
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.
Those lips that love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the found that said, I hate,
To me that languish'd for her fake :
But when she saw my woful state,
Strait in her heart did mercy comes
Chiding that tongue, that, ever sweet,
Was us'd in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus a:new to greet :
I hate, she alter'd with an end
That follow'd it, as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend,
From heave to hell is flown away.
I hate, from hate away she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying not yout.
A Confideration of Deathi
Poor soul! the center of my finful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers that thee array x
Why dost thou pine within and fuffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls in coftly clay?
Why lo large coit, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy faded mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excefs,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end ?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs ;
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..
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 fickly 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 phyfick did except.
Past cure l'am, now reason is paft cure ;
And frantick mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad mens are;-
At random from the truth vainly express'd.
For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee brighty,
Who art as black a: hell, as: dark as night.
Love's Powerful Subtlety:
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correfpondence with true fight!
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That cenfures faltly what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes doat, :
What means the world to say it is not so ?
If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love's eye is not so true as all mens. No,
How can it ? O how can love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, tho’I mistake my view;
The sun itself fees not, till Heaven clears,
O! cunning. love! with tears thou keep'it me
blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
Can'st thou, O cruel! say I love thee not?
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
All of myself, all tyrant for thy fake?'
Who hatest thou, that I do call my friend ?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon ?
Nay, if thou low’rst on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself 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 fee, thou lov'ft ; and I am blind.
Oh! from what power halt thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway;
To make me give the lye to my true light,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence haft 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'It not abhor my state.
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
So oft have I invok'd thee for my muse,
And found such fair afsiftance in my verses.
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to fing,
And heavy ignorance alost 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 theej
In others works thou doit but mend the stile,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be :.
But thou art all my art, and dost advance,
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'dg.
And my fick muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love! thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen ;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again ;
He lends thee virtue, 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 thyself doft pay.
That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs, which shake againīt the cold,
Bare ruin'd quires, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilights of such day,
As after fun-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 see'st 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'lt, which makes thy love more
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Thy glass will thew thee how thy beauties wear :
Thy dial how thy precious minutes watte;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'lt thou taste.
The wrinkles, which thy glass will truly thow,
Of mouthed graves will give the memory :
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may't know
Time's thievilh progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these walte blacks, and thou shalt find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, fo oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy book.