The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is luft 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 defpifed ftraight;
Paft reason hunted; and no fooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in purfuit, and in poffeffion fo;
Had, having, and in queft to have, extreme;
A blifs 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 some 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 sound:
I 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 any fhe belied with false compare.
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'ft to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, fome fay that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err I dare not be fo bold,
Although I fwear it to myself alone.
And to be fure that is not falfe I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is faireft in my judgement's place.
In nothing art thou black fave in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning fun of heaven
Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,
Nor that full ftar that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the fober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well befeem thy heart
To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is 't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next felf thou harder haft engrossed:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be croffed.
Prison my heart in thy fteel bofom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol :
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
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