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Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose;
But like a fad flave stay, and think of nought,
Save where you are: how happy you make those !
So true a fool is love, that in your will,

(Tho' you

do any thing) he thinks no ill.

That god forbid, that made me first your flave,
I should in thought controul your times of pleasure;
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vaffal, bound to ftay your leisure.
O let me fuffer (being at your beck)

Th' imprifon'd abfence of your liberty;

And patience, tame to fufferance, bide each check,
Without accufing you of injury!

Be where you lift, your charter is fo ftrong, \
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of felf-doing crime.

I am to wait, tho' waiting fo be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

The Beauty of Nature.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd?
Which labouring for invention, bear amifs
The fecond burden of a former child?
O! that record could with a backward look,
Ev'n of five hundred courses of the fun;
Show me your image in fome antique book,
Since mine at firft in character was done!
That I might fee what the old world could fay
To this compofed wonder of your frame;

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Whether we're mended, or where better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.

O! fure I am, the wits of former days,
To fubjects worse, have given admiring praise.

Love's Cruelty.

From faireft creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rofe may never die ;
But as the riper fhould by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory.
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'ft thy light's flame with felf-fubftantial fuel;
Making a famine where abundance lies:
Thyself thy foe, to thy fweet felf too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud burieft thy content,
And tender churl mak'ft wafte in niggarding:
Pity the world, or elfe this glutton be

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

When forty winters fhall befiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, fo gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held :
Then being afk'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lufty days;
To say within thine own deep-funken eyes,
Were an all-eating fhame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deferv'd thy beauty's ufe,
If thou couldft anfwer, This fair child of mine
Shall fum my count, and make my old excufe,
Proving his beauty by fucceffion thine?

This were to be new made when thou art old,
And fee thy blood warm, when thou feel'ft it cold.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou vieweft,
Now is the time that face fhould form another,
Whose fresh repair, if now thou not reneweft,
Thou doft beguile the world, unblefs fome mother.
For where is the fo fair, whose un-ear'd womb
Difdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he fo fond, will be the tomb
Of his felf-love, to ftop pofterity?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and fhe in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou thro' windows of thine age fhalt fee,
Defpite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember not to be;
Die fingle, and thine image dies with thee.

Youthful Glory.

O that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours, than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you fhould prepare,
And your sweet semblance to fome other give.
So fhould that beauty, which you hold in leafe,
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourfelf's decease,
When your fweet iffue your fweet form fhould bear.
Who lets fo fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the ftormy gufts of winter's day,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O! none but unthrifts: dear my love, you know
You had a father, let your son say so.

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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have aftronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or fay, with princes if it fhall go well,
By ought predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And conftant ftars; in them I read fuch art,
As truth and beauty fhall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou would'ft convert :
Or elfe of thee this I prognofticate,

Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

When I confider, every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment;
That this huge ftage prefenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the ftars in fecret influence comment:
When I perceive, that men as plants increase,
Chear'd and check'd ev'n by the self-fame sky:
Vaunt in their youthful fap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave ftate out of memory:
Then the conceit of this inconftant stay,
Sets you moft rich in youth before my fight,
Where wafteful time debateth with decay,
To change your day of youth to fullied night;
And all in war with time, for love of you,
As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.

Good Admonition.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way,
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, time?

And fortify yourself, in your decay,

With means more bleffed than my barren rhyme?
Now ftand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unfet,

With virtuous with would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit.
So fhould the lines of life that life repair,
Which this (time's pencil) or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourfelf in eyes of men.

To give away yourfelf, keeps yourself ftill,
And you muft live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Who will believe my verfe, in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deferts?
Tho' yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb,
Which hides your life, and flows not half your parts..
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces;
The age to come would fay this poet lyes,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.
So fhould my papers (yellow'd with their age)
Be fcorn'd, like old men of lefs truth than tongue;
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And ftretched metre of an antick song.

But were fome child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.

Quick Prevention.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new appearing fight,
Serving with looks his facred majesty;
And having climb'd the fteep-up heavenly hilly-
Refembling ftrong youth in his middle age,

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