XCII.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art affured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconftant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O, what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's fo bleffed-fair that fears no blot?

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII.

So fhall I live, fuppofing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; fo love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks the false heart's history

Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles ftrange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree

That in thy face fweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy fweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.

The fummer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The baseft weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn soureft by their deeds;

Lilies that fefter fmell far worse than weeds.

XCV.

How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rofe,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets doft thou thy fins inclose!
That tongue that tells the ftory of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot difpraise but in a kind of praise ;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

Some fay, thy fault is youth, fome wantonness;
Some fay, thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and lefs:
Thou makest faults graces that to thee refort.
As on the finger of a throned queen

The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,

So are those errors that in thee are seen

To truths tranflated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not fo; I love thee in fuch fort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.