LXXII. O, left the world should task you to recite What merit lived in That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. LXXIII. That time of year thou mayst in me behold As after funfet fadeth in the weft; Which by and by black night doth take away, This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more ftrong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. LXXIV. But be contented: when that fell arreft The earth can have but earth, which is his due; The worth of that is that which it contains, LXXV. So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Then better'd that the world may fee my pleasure : And by and by clean starved for a look; Save what is had or must from you be took. LXXVI. Why is my verse fo barren of new prides That every word doth almost tell my name, O, know, fweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my best is dreffing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the fun is daily new and old, So is my love ftill telling what is told. |