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Poems on several Occasions.

The Glory of Beauty.

Ah wherefore with infection should he live?
And with his presence grace impiety?
That fin by him advantage should atchieve,
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 thro' lively veins ?
For The 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, out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and dy'd as flowers do now;
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of fepulchers, 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 fouls) give thee thy due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Their 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 their churl thoughts(altho'theireyes were kind)
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds.

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

Injurious Time.

Like as the waves make towards the pibbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end :
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish fet on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

And yet to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travel'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing, or vanish'd out of fight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring :
For such a time, do I now fortify,
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, tho' my lover's life.

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

And they shall live, and he in them still green. When I have seen, by time's fell hand defac’d, The rich proud cost of out-worn bury'd age; When sometimes lofty towers I see down raz'd, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm foil win of the watry main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded, to decay : Ruin háth taught me thus to ruminate, That time will come, and take my

love

away. This thought is as a death, which cannot chuse

But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless fea, But fad mortality o'er-lways their power : How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower ?

O! how shall summer's hungry breath hold out
Against the wrackful fiege of battering days ;
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O! fearful meditation ! where, alack !
Shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid ?
Or what strong hand can hold this swift foot back,
Or who his spoil on beauty can forbid ?

O! none ! unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry; As to behold defert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpetted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-ty'd by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controuling skill, And simple truth miscall'd fimplicity, And captive good attending captain ill :

Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

True Admiration.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And
you
but one, can every

shadow lend?
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;

On Helen's cheek all art of beauty fet,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foyzen of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every

blessed shape we know : In all external grace you have some part,

But you like none, none you, for constant heart. Ò! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But for their virtue's only in their show, They live unmov'd, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves : sweet roses do not so, Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.

The Force of Love.
Being your slave, what should I do, but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire,
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require :
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilft I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you;
Nor think the bitterness of absence four,
When

you
have bid

your
servant once adieu:

H

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