To let base clouds o'ertake 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 fuch a falve 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 cross;
Th' offender's forrow lends but weak relief
To him, that beareth strong offences cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thorns, and filver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and fun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorifing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing their fins more than their fins are ::
For to my sensual fault I bring incenfe,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate;
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence,
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an acceffary needs must be
To that sweet thief which forely robs from me...
Let me confefs, that we two must be twain,
Altho' our undivided loves are one:
So shall those bolts, that do with me remain
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Tho' in our lives a separable spite;
Which tho' it alter not love's fole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest 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 fo, I love thee in such fort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report..
As a decrepit father takes deliglit
To see his active child do deeds of youth;
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,.
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 fit,
I make my love ingrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,.
Whilft that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am fuffic'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.
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 defcant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewel (quoth she) and come again to-morrow
Fare well I could not, for I fupt with forrow..
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn, or friendship, nill I conster whether :
It may be the joy'd to jest at my exile;
It may be again to make me wander thither.
Wander (a word) for fhadows like thyself,
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 cite each moving fense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela fits and fings, I fit and mark,
And with her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished fight;
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with
forrow;
For why? she sigh'd, and bad me come to-morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too foom,
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,
Yet not for me, thine fun to fuccour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow,
Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow..
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 painter's 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 fee 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 fun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they fee, know not the heart.
Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of publick honour and proud titles boaft :
Whilst I, whom fortune of fuch triumph bars,
Unlook'd-for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for 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.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I fend this written embaffage,
To witness duty, not to shew my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make feem bare, in wanting words to shew it;
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In my foul's thought (all naked) will bestow it.
Till whatsoever star, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of their sweet respect.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee :
Till then, not show my head, where thou may'st
[prove me.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When that I feek (my weary travel's 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 woe,
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 fide,'
For that fame groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Thus can my love excuse the flow 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.
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