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That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking, that she thinks me young,
Altho’ I know my years be past the beft ;
I smiling, credit her false speaking tongue,
Out-facing faults in love, with love's ill reft.
But wherefore says my love, that she is young ?
And wherefore fay not I, that I am old ?
O love’s best habit is a smoothing tongue,
And age (in love) loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lye with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two fpirits do suggest me (till:
My better angel is a man (right fair)
My worser spirit a woman :(colour'd ill.)
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel-be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell.
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
'Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
Did not the heavenly rhetorick of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury,
Vows for thee broke, deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore : but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not chee :
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love,
Thy grace being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath. a vapour is ;
Then thou, fair fun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow, in thee it is :
If broken then, it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wife
To break an oath, to win a paradise.?
So is it not with me, as with that muse,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse :
Making a compliment of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and fea's rich gems;
With April's firfl-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air, in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, tho' not so bright,
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air.
Let them say more, that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.
As an unperfect aétor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part ;
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength abundant weakens his own heart:
So I, for fear of trust, forgot to say
The perfect ceremony of love's right,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and louk for recompence,
More than that tongue that more hath more exprest.
O learn to read what Glent love hath writ!
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
My glass shall not persuade me I am olu,
So long as youth and thou art of one date ;
But when in thee time's forrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty, that doth cover thee,
Is but the feemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy brealt doth live, as thine in me,
How can I then be elder than thou art ?
O therefore, love! be of rhyself so wary,
As I not for myself, but for thee, will,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep fo chary,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain
Thou gav'ft me thine, not to give back again.
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook,
With young Adonis, lovely fresh and greeng
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him stories, to delight his ears;
She show'd him favours, to allure his eye ;
To win his heart, she touch't bim here and there is
Touches fo fost, still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceity
Or he refus'd to take her figur'd proffer,
The tender nibbler wou'd not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer.
Then fell the on her back, fair queen, and toward,
He rofe and ran away; ah! fool too froward.
A Constant Vow. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? 0! never faith cou'd hold, if not to beauty vow'd :: Tho'to inyself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove. Those thoughts to me like oaks, to thee like ofiers bow'd Study his byas leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall fuffice. Well learned is that tongue, that well can thee com
mend ! All ignorant that foul, that sees thee without wonder, Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire : Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his
dreadful thunder, Which (not to anger bent) is mufick and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O ! do not love that wrong! To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.
The Exchange. A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, Halt thou the master, mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion.
An eye more bright than theirs, lefs false in rolling :
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth.
A man in hue all hue in his controuling;
Which steals mens eyes, and womens fouls amazeth:
And for a woman wert thou first created.
Till nature, as the wrought thee, fell a doating,
And by addition me of thee defeated ;
By adding one thing, to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for womens pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.
Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired.
For then my thoughts (far from where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darkness, which the blind do fee.
Save that my soul's imaginary fight
Presents their shadow to my fightless view ;
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myfelf no quiet find...
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am deba the benefit of rest ?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day opprest?