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Ah, wherefore with infe&tion should he live
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society ?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue ?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O, him the stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.


Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durft inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those fame tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes

were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:

But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defea,
For Nander's mark was ever yet the fair ;
The ornament of beauty is suspe&,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, Nander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure, unstained prime.
Thou hast pafl'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or vi&or being charged ;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged:

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


No longer mourn for me when I am dead

you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fed
From this vile world, with vileft worms to dwell :
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let

love even with


life decay; Left the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

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