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 flow;
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 ftewards 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 rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets doft thou thy fins inclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise 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 fee!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-ufed doth lofe his edge.

G

XCVI.

Some fay, thy fault is youth, fome wantonnefs;
Some fay, thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less :
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
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 tranflate!
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 such sort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days feen!
What old December's bareness every where !
And yet this time removed was fummer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant iffue feem'd to me

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For fummer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they fing, 'tis with so dull a cheer

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dreff'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any fummer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet feem'd it winter ftill, and, you away,
As with your fhadow I with these did play.