LIX. If there be nothing new, but that which is O, that record could with a backward look, That I might fee what the old world could say O, fure I am, the wits of former days To fubjects worse have given admiring praise. LX. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes haften to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In fequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, And nothing ftands but for his scythe to mow: LXI. Is it thy will thy image should keep open To find out fhames and idle hours in me, O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: To play the watchman ever for thy fake: For thee watch I whilft thou doft wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. LXII. Sin of felf-love poffeffeth all mine eye It is fo grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths furmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, Mine own felf-love quite contrary I read ; Self fo felf-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee, myself, that for myfelf I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. LXIII. Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn; Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night; That he shall never cut from memory E |