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Hot was the day, she hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often here had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim :
The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so whistly, as this queen on him :
He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
O! Yove! (quoth she) why was not I a flood ?
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ;
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rulty :
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her ;
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing?
How many tales to please me hath the coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing?
Yet in the midít of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were
She burnt with love, as straw with fire Aameth;
She burnt out love, as soon as straw out burning;
She fram’d the love, and yet she foil'd the framing,
She bad love laft, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad at the best, tho excellent in neither.
The Benefit of Friendship.
When to the feflions of sweet filent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.
Then can I drown an eye (unus’d to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expence of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All lofles are restor'd, and sorrows end.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead ;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov’d, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone;
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
If thou survive my well contented day,
When that churl death my bones with duft shall
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover :
Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,
And tho' they be out-stript by every pen,
Reserve them for
love, not for their rhime, Exceeded by the height of happier men, Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought ! Had my friend's mure grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this, his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage :
But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their stile I'll read, his for his love.
If musick and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs (the lister and the brother)
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute, doth ravith human fensé :
Spencer to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence. :
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound,
That Phæbus' lute (the queen of mufick) makes;
And I in deep delight am chicfly drown'd,
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One God is God of both (as poets fain)
One knight loves both, and both in thee rernain,
Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love, Paler for forrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's fake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds,
She, filly queen, with more than love's good-will,
Forbad the boy he should not pafs those grounds :
Once (quoth she) did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes, deep wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh a spectacle of ruth;
See in my thigh (quoth fhe) here was the fore :
She shewed hers, he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing Aed, and left her all alone.
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into iny verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
Oh! give thyself the thanks, if ought in me,
Worthy perusal, stand against thy sight;
For who's so dull, that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth mule, ten times more in worth,
Than those old Nine which rhimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to out-live long date.
If my Night mufe do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise,
Oh! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of nie?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one ;
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone.
Oh absence! what a torment would'st thou prove,
Were't not that thy four leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Who time and thoughts so sweetly doft deceive;
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before ?
No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refuseft.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Altho' thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spite, yet we must not be foes.
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometimes absent from thy heart, .
Thy beauty and thy years full well befit,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won ;
Beauteous thou art, and therefore to be affailed,
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will fourly leave her till he have prevailed?