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CXLVI.

Poor foul, the centre of my finful earth,
[Preff'd by] these rebel powers that thee array,
Why doft thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls fo coftly gay?
Why fo large cost, having so short a lease,
Doft thou upon thy fading manfion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs,
And let that pine to aggravate thy ftore;
Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So fhalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing ftill

For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prefcriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I defperate now approve
Defire is death, which phyfic did except.
Paft cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unreft;
My thoughts and my difcourfe as madmen's are,
At random from the truth, vainly expreff'd ;

For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thee
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. [bright,

CXLVIII.

O me,
what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true fight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled,
That cenfures falfely what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not fo?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is fo vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The fun itself fees not till heaven clears.

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'ft me blind,
Left eyes well-feeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.

Canft thou, O cruel! fay I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy fake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'ft on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with prefent moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,

That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

CL.

O, from what power haft thou this powerful might With infufficiency my heart to fway?

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That, in my mind, thy worst all beft exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and fee just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

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