XIX. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, For beauty's pattern to fucceeding men. XX. A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's fouls amazeth. Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. XXI. So is it not with me as with that Muse And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare, With fun and moon, with earth and fea's rich gems, XXII. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Prefume not on thy heart when mine is slain; XXIII. As an unperfect actor on the ftage, Who with his fear is put befides his part, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb prefagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompenfe, To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. |