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XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath ftell'd

Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is beft painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bofom's fhop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now fee what good turns eyes for eyes have done :
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV,

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilft 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 fun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the reft forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vaffalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I fend this written ambaffage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty fo great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope fome good conceit of thine

In thy foul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever ftar that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
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 mayst prove me.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I hafte me to my bed,
The dear repofe for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do fee:
Save that my foul's imaginary fight

Presents thy fhadow to my fightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghaftly night,

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of reft?

When day's oppreffion is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppreff'd ;
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, ftill farther off from thee?

I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright
And doft him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the fwart-complexion'd night;

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'ft the even.

But day doth daily draw my forrows longer,

And night doth nightly make grief's length seem

stronger.

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