LXXIV. Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, LXXV. That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, Either not assail'd, or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged: If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, 8 'Solve:' solution.—2 ‹ LXXVVI. Oh thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power LXXVII. Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Look, what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. EP. I.] 79 PART THIRD. LXXVIII. 8 Full many a glorious morning have I seen Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack 1 on his celestial face, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.2 "Rack:' vapours.—2 2 Stain' and 'staineth,' are here used with the signification of a verb neuter. LXXIX. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends out but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah! but those tears are pearls, which thy love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. LXXX. No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: All men make faults, and even I in this, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are: That I an accessory needs must be To that sweet thief, which sourly robs from me. |