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Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be mist.
That poor retention could not fo much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me, was I bold
To truft thofe tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

A Vow.

No, Time! thou fhalt not boaft that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but drefings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou doft foift upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our defire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wond'ring at the prefent nor the paft;
For thy records, and what we fee doth lye,
Made more or lefs by thy continual haste.
This I do vow, and this fhall ever be ;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

If

Love's Safety.

my dear love were but the child of ftate,, It might for fortune's baftard be un-father'd; As fubject to time's love, or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. No, it was builded far from accident,

It fuffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled difcontent,

Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretick,

Which works on leafes of fhort number'd hours,
But all alone ftands hugely politick,

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with fhowers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.

An Intreaty for her Acceptance.

Where it ought to be, I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring;
Or laid great bafes for eternity,

Which prove more short than waste or ruining.
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour,
Lofe all, and more, by paying too much rent
For compound fweet, foregoing fimple favour?
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent,

No, let me be obfequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with feconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence thou fuborn'd informer! a true foul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy controul.

Upon her playing on the Virginals.

How oft when thou thy mufick, mufick-play'ft,
Upon that bleffed wood, whofe motion founds
With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The witty concord that mine ear confounds s;
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kifs the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilft my poor lips, which fhould that harveft reap,
At the wood's boldness, by thee blushing stand.
To be fo tickled they would change their state,
And fituation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks fo happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kifs.

Immoderate Luft.

Th' expence of spirit in a waste of shame,
Is luft in action; and till action, lust

Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to truft;
Enjoy'd no fooner, but defpifed ftreight,
Paft reafon hunted, and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated as a fwallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Made in purfuit and in poffeflion fo,
Had, having, and in queft, to have extreine,
A blifs in proof, and proud, and very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well 'To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

In praife of her beauty, though black.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name:
But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a bastard shame:
For fince each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's falfe borrow'd face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,"
But is profan'd; if not, lives in difgrace.
Therefore my miftrefs' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners feem,
At fuch who not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a falfe esteem:

Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woé,
That every tongue fays beauty fhould look fo.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If fnow be white, why then her breafts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen rofes, damafk, red, and white;
But no fuch roses fee I in her cheeks:
And in fome perfumes there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from my miftrefs reeks.
I love to hear her fpeak, yet well I know,
That mufick hath a far more pleafing found:
I grant I never faw a goddefs go;

My mistress, when the walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any fhe, bely'd with falfe compare.

Thou art tyrannous, fo thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel:
For well thou know'ft to my dear doating heart,
Thou art the faireft, and moft precious jewel.
Yet in good faith fome fay that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To fay they err, I dare not be fo bold,
Altho' I fwear it to myself alone.

And to be fure that is not falfe I fwear;

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

M

One on another's neck do witnefs bear:
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black, fave in thy deeds,
And thence this flander, as I think, proceeds.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with difdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning-fun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east;
Nor that full ftar that ufhers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the fober weft,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
Oh! let it then as well befeem thy heart

To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fute thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complection lack.

Unkind Abufe.

Befhrew that heart that makes my heart to groan,
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me;
Is't not enough to torture me alone,

But flave to flavery my sweetest friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next felf thou harder haft engross'd;
Of him, myself, and thee I am forfaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd.
Prifon my heart in thy fteel bofom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then ufe rigour in my jail.

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