To follow that which flies before her face; Not prizing her poor infant's discontent. So run'st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, And play the mother's part, kifs me, be kind. So will I pray, that thou may't have thy Willy If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.
Thofe lips that love's own hand did make, Breath'd forth the found that faid, I hate, To me that languish'd for her fake: But when the faw 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, the alter'd 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 fhe threw, And fav'd my life, faying not you.
A Confideration of Death.
Poor foul! the center of my finful earth, My finful earth these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and fuffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls in coftly clay? Why fo large coit, having to fhort a lease, Doft thou upon thy faded manfion spend
Shall worms, inheritors of this excefs, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs, And let that pine to aggravate thy ftore; Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs; Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So fhalt 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 ftill
For that which longer nurfeth the difeafe; Feeding on that which doth preferve the ill- Th' uncertain fickly appetite to please. My reafon, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I defperate now approve; Defire is death, which phyfick did except. Past cure Fam, now reason is past cure; And frantick mad with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my difcourfe as mad mens are, At random from the truth vainly exprefs'd.
For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
Love's Powerful Subtlety.
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true fight! Or if they have, where is my judgment fled, That cenfures falfly what they fee aright? If that be fair whereon my falfe eyes doat, What means the world to say it is not fo -
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 fo vex'd with watching and with tears?" No marvel then, tho' I miftake my view; The fun itself fees not, till Heaven clears,
O! cunning love! with tears thou keep'ft me blind,
Left eyes well-feeing thy foul faults fhould find.
Can't thou, O cruel! fay 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 hateft thou, that I do call my friend? On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon ? Nay, if thou low'rft on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with prefent moan? What merit do I in myself respect, That is fo proud thy fervice 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, Thofe that can fee, thou lov'ft; and I am blind.
Oh! from what power haft thou this powerful might, With infufficiency my heart to sway;
To make me give the lye to my true fight, And fwear that brightnefs doth not grace the day 2 Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refufe of thy deeds,
There is fuch ftrength and warrantise of skill, That in my mind thy worft all befts exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and fee juft caufe of hate?
Oh! tho' I love what others do abhor, With others thou should'ft not abhor my If thy unworthinefs rais'd love in me, More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
So oft have I invok'd thee for my mufe, And found fuch fair affiftance in my verfe,. As every alien pen hath got my ufe,
And under thee their poefy difperfe.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to fing,
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, Whofe influence is thine, and born of thee; In others works thou dost but mend the ftile, And arts with thy fweet graces graced be:
But thou art all my ait, and doft advance, As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid, My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my fick mufe doth give another place. I grant, fweet 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 praife 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'ft 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 fweet birds fang. In me thou feest the twilights of such day, As after fun-fet fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's fecond felf that feals up all in reft. In me thou see't the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Confum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. 'Tis thou perceiv'it, which makes thy love more
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Thy glass will fhew 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'it 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't know Time's thievith progrefs to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blacks, and thou shalt find Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. Thefe offices, fo oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy book.
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