How oft, when thou, my mufic, music play'st
Upon that blessed wood whofe motion founds
With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy thofe jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilft my poor lips, which should that harvest reap.
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And fituation with thofe dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kifs.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is luft in action; and till action, luft
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no fooner but despised straight;
Paft reason hunted; and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated, as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in poffeffion so;
Had, having, and in queft to have, extreme;
A blifs in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy propofed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows
To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If fnow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no fuch roses fee I in her cheeks;
And in fome perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
grant I never faw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
fhe belied with falfe compare.
Thou art as tyrannous, fo as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'ft to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan :
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be fure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgement'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 disdain,
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 gray cheeks of the east,
Nor that full ftar that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the fober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fuit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I fwear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
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