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If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call :
And with such like flattering,
Pity but he was a king.
If he be addiet to vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandment.
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewel his great renown :
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need :
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou awake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs, to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.
A Request to his Scornful Love. When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light, And place my merit in the
of scorn, Upon thy side, against thyself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, tho' thou art forsworn: With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can fet down a story Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted : That thou in losing me shalt win much glory : And I by this will be a gainer too. For bending all my loving thoughts on thee; The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee 'vantage, double 'vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I fo belong,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
Say that thou didft forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence ;
Speak of my lameness, and I ftrait will halt;
Againt thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst 'not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance ftrangle, and look ftrange;
Be absent from thy walks, and on my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Leit I (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself, I'll vow debate;
For I must ne're love him, whom thou doft hate.
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss :
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this forrow,
Come in the rereward of a conquer'd woe!
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos’d overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me laft,
When other petty griefs have done their spite;
But in the onset come, fo fhall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might.
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem fo.
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies force,
Some in their garments, tho' new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, fome in their horse:
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest.
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better, in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost;
Of more delight than hawks or horses be:
And having thee, of all mens pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
most wretched make.
A Lover's Affection, though his Love prove Unconftant.
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than my love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end;
I see a better state to me belongs,
Than that which on my humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie;
Oh! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die !
But what's so blessed fair, that fears no blot?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not.
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, tho' alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In manies looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles ftrange:
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ;
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks shall nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy fhow! They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they must do, show; Who moving others, are themselves as stone Unmoved, cold and to temptation flow : They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expence; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Tho' to itself it only live and die ; But if that flower with base infection meet, The baseft weed out-braves his dignity :
For sweetest things turn fourest by their deeds; Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame,
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name?
Oh! in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose !
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
Cannot difpraise, but in a kind of praise ;
Naming thy name, blefles an ill report.
Oh! what a manfion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chure out thee ;
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see !
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege,
The hardest knife, ill us’d, doth lose his edge.
Complaint for his Lover's Absence.
How like a winter hath
From thee, the pleasure of the feeting year!
What freezings have I felt, whạt dark days seen?
What old December's barrenness every
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time;
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease.
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to nie,
But hope of orphans and un-father'd fruit ;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
the very birds are mute: Or if they fing, 'tis with so dull a chear, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud py'd April (drest in all his trim)
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Cou'd make me any summer's story tell;
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep verinillion in the rose;