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Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Immoderate Pasion.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve;
Desire is death, which physick did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past cure;
And frantick mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmens are,
Ať random from the truth vainly express’d.

For I have sworn 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 Aed,
That censures falsly what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes doat,
What means the world to say it is not so:

be true,

If it be not, then love doth well denote,


is not so true as all mens. No, How can it? O how can love's

eye That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? No marvel then, tho' I mistake my view; The sun itself fees not, till Heaven clears, O! cunning love with tears thou keep'ft me

blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. Can'st thou, O cruel! say 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 hatest thou, that I do call my friend? On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon ? Nay, if thou low’rst on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan? What merit do I'in my self respect, That is so proud thy service 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, Those that can fee, thou lov'st; and I am blind.

Oh! from what power haft thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway;
To make me give the lye to my true fight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds,
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all bests exceeds ?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

Oh! tho’ I love what others do abhor,
With others thou should'It not abhor my

If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.


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So oft have I invok'd thee for my muse,
And found such fair affistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poely disperse.
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 molt proud of that, which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee;
In others works thou doft but mend the stile,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be:

But thou art all my art, and doft advance,
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick mufe doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love ! thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee agen;
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour. Beauty doth he give, t
And found it in thy cheek. He can afford
No praise 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'st in ine behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs, which shake against the cold,
Bare ruind quires, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou feeft the twilights of such day,
As after fun-fet fadeth in the west ;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
'Tis thou perceiy'st, which makes thy love more

strong 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 waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'st 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 It know
Time's thievilh progress to eternity,
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to there waste blacks, and thou shalt find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy book.

A Monument to Fame.
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetick soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love controul,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage :
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me fubfcribes;
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants crests and tombs of brass are spent.

What's in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit ?
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet love! but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very fame;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
E’en as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love, in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injuries of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page :

Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would shew it dead.

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Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love!

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