LXXIX. Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid, LXXX. O, how I faint when I of you do write, But fince your worth, wide as the ocean is, fame! On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Then if he thrive and I be caft away, The worst was this; my love was my decay. LXXXI. Or I fhall live your epitaph to make, Or you furvive when I in earth am rotten; From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die : The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument fhall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live-such virtue hath my penWhere breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. J LXXXII. I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; And their grofs painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. LXXXIII. I never faw that you did painting need, And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; When others would give life and bring a tomb. |