XXXIV.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which labouring for invention bear amiss

The second burthen of a former child!
Oh, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r1 better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.

Oh! sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

XXXV.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,2

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

1 Whe'r:' whether.-2 The ocean of light.

XXXVI.

Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famousèd for fight,

After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razèd quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil❜d : Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

XXXVII.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,

To witness duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:

Till whatsoever star that guides by moving,

Points on me graciously with fair aspéct,

And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect;

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,

Till then, not show my head where thou may'st prove me.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,-and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXXIX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless1 night, And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of 2 many a vanish'd sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

26

1 'Dateless:' endless.- Expense of:' passing away of.

XL.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;

And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious 1 tear

1

Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things removed, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ;
That due of many now is thine alone :
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

XLI.

If thou survive my well contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time;

And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought!
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage :
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Obsequious:' funereal.

1 6

Oh, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify!
As easy might I from myself depart,

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again;
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,-
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

XLIII.

Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motley 1 to the view,

Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.

Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth

Askance and strangely; but, by all above, These blenches 2 gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end :3 Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A God in love, to whom I am confined.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

1 'A motley:' a fool. —2 Blenches:' deviations.—3 My constant affection.