O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Doft hold Time's fickie glafs, his fickle, hour; Who haft by waning grown, and therein show'ft Thy lovers withering as thy fweet self grow'ft; If Nature, fovereign mistress over wrack, As thou goeft onwards, ftill will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time difgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure! She may detain, but not ftill keep, her treasure: Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee.
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ; But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir, And beauty flander'd with a bastard shame : For fince each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners feem At fuch who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue fays beauty should look fo.
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st Upon that bleffed wood whose motion founds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy thofe jacks that nimble leap
To kifs the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilft my poor lips, which should that harvest reap. At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! To be fo tickled, they would change their state And fituation with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more bleft than living lips. Since faucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kifs.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no fooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in poffeffion fo;
Had, having, and in queft to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows
To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If fnow be white, why then her breasts are dun ; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no fuch roses fee I in her cheeks;
And in fome perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing found:
grant I never faw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As fhe belied with false compare.
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