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Oh! for my fake do you with fortune chide
The guilty goddess of my

harmlefs deeds,
That did not better for my life provides as
Than publick means which publick manners breeds,
Thence comes it, that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd :
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink
Potions of eyfel 'gainst my strong infection,
No bitterness, that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I affure ye,

E’en that your pity is enough to cure me.
Your love and pity doth th'impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So
you
o'er-skreen

my bad, my good allow?
You are my all, the world and I must strive,
To know my shames and praises from your tongue ;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeld fenfe or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysme I throw all care
Of others voices, that my adder's sense
To critick and to flatterer stopped are:
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides me thinks I'm dead.

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Self- Flattery of her Beauty.
Since I left you mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about,
Doth part his function, and is partly blind;
Seems seeing, but effectually is out.
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of birds, or flower, or shape, which it doth lack;
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it fee the rud'ft or gentlest fight,
The moft sweet favour or deformedít creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:

Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say mine eye

saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchymy?
To make of monsters, and things indigeft,
Such cherubims as your sweet self resemble;
Creating every bad a perfect beft,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble ?
Oh! 'tis the first, ’tis flatt'ry in my seeing,
And my great mind most kindly drinks it up;
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup.

If it be poison'd, 'tis the lefser fin,
That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

Those lines, that I before have writ, do lye, E’en those that said I could not love you dearer :

Yet then my judgment knew no reason why,
My most full fame should afterwards burn clearer,
But reck’ning time, whose million accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Can sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'ít intents,
Divert strong minds to th'course of alt'ring things :
Alas! why fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then fay, now I love you best,
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest ?

Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

A Trial of Love's Constancy.

Accufe me thus ; that I have fcanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your deareft love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear purchas'd right;
That I have hoisted fails to all the winds,
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and error down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But Thoot not at me in

your

wakened hate : Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love,

Like as you make your appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge ;
As to prevent our maladies unseen,
We ficken, to fhun fickness, when we purge:

Even so being full of your near cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And sick of welfare, found a kind of meekness,
To be diseas'd ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, t' anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state,
Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured.

But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that fo fell fick of you.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distillid from limbecks foul as hell within ?
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win.
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ?
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever ?
Oh! benefit of ill! now I find true,
That better is by evil still made better ;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuke to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

A good Construction of his Love's Unkindness.
That you were once unkind befriends me now;
And for that forrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel,
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y have pass'd a hell of time;

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And I a tyrant have no leisure taken,
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. .
Oh! that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest fenfe, how hard true forrow hits,
And foon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble salve, which wounded bofoms fits !

But that your trespass now becomes a fee,
Mine ransoms

yours,

and

yours must ransom me."

Error in Opinion.
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be, receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemid,
Not by our feeling, but by others seeing.
For why should others falle adulterate eyes
Give falutation to my sportive blood ?
Or on my frailties, why are frailer spies ;
Which in their wills count bad what I think good ?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own;
I may be streight, tho' they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;

Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

Upon the Receipt of a Table-Book from his Mistress. Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain, Full character'd with a lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain, Beyond all date, even to eternity; Or at the least, so long as brain and hears Have faculty by nature to fubfift;

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