LIV. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem Hang on fuch thorns, and play as wantonly But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet rofes do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth. LV. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments But you And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his fword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all pofterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. LVI. Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not faid The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Or call it winter, which, being full of care, Makes fummer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare. LVII. Being your flave, what should I do but tend I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour When you have bid your fervant once adieu; Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. LVIII. That god forbid that made me first your slave, Being your vaffal, bound to stay your O, let me fuffer, being at your beck, leifure ! The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to fufferance, bide each check, Be where you lift, your charter is so strong I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, |