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The earth can have but earth, which is his due ;
My sprite is thine, the better part of me.
So then thou haft but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be rememb'red.
The worth of that, is that which it contains ;
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
That thou art blam’d, shall not be thy defecty',
For flander's mark was ever yet
the fair :
The ornament of beauty is suspect ;
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, flander doth not approve
Their worth the greater, being woo'd' of timez
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unftained prime.
Thou hast past by the ambush of young days,
Either not afrail'd, or victor, being charg'd ;
Yet this thy praise cannot be fo thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg d ;
If some fufpect of ill, malk not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts:1hould'It'owes'.
O how I faint; when I of you do write !
Knowing a better fpirit doth use your name;
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty’d, speaking of your fame.
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear; .
My faucy bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your fhallowelt help will hold me up a-float,
Whilft he upon your foundless deep doth ride;
Or (being wreck'd) I am a worthless boat,
Ile of tall building, and of goodly pride.
Then if he thrive, and I be cast 'away,
The worst was this, my love was my decayo
Or shall I live your epitaph to make ?
Or you survive, when I in earth am rotten ? :
Freiwhence your memory death cannot také, .
Altho' in me-each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Tho' I (once gone) to all the world must die;
The earth can yield me but a common grave, :
When you -entombed in mens eyes shall lie :
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created fhall o'er-read ; :
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You. still mall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Where breath most breathes, ev'n in the mouths-ofi
The Pi&ture of True Love/
Let me not to the marriage of true minds.
Admit impediments; love is not love,
Whichi alters when it alteration finds,-
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed 'mark;
That looks on tempests, and is never fhaken:
It is the far to every wand'ring bark;
Whose worth's unknowa, altho' his height be taken:
Love's not time's fool, tho' rosy lips and cheeks
With his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it down even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I grant thou wert not marry’d to my muse,
And therefore may'st without attaint o'er-look:
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, bleifing every book.....
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue;
Finding thy worth, a limit past my praise ;
And therefore art enforc'd to seek a-new
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days :
And do fo love, yet when they have devis'd
What strained touches rhetorick can lend, in
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd;
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend:
And their gross painting might be better us’d,
Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abus'd.
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to you fair no painting set :
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed...
The barren tender of a. poet's debt:.
And therefore have I flept in your report,*.
That you yourself being extant, well might show, .
How far a modern quill doth come too-Short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This filence of my fin you did impute,
Which Ihall be most my glory, being dumb ;.,.
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others wou'd give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,,
Than both your poets can in praile devise.
Who is it, that says molt, which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory :.
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, fo dignifies his story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear ;,
And such a counterpart hall fame his writ,
Making him ftill admir'd everywhere.
You to your beauteous blessing add a curse,
Being fond of praise, which makes your praises
My tongue-ty'd mase in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compild,
Referve their character with golden quilt,
And precious phrase by all the muses fill’d.
I think good thoughts, whilft others write good words,
And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry Amen
To every hymn that able fpirit affords,
In polith'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praifed, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more ;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Tho' words come hindmoft) holds his ranks before :
Then others, for the breath of words, refpect;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
Was it the proud full fail of his greạt verse;
Bound for the prize of (all-too-precious) you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain rehearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?:
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ?:
No, neither he nor his compeers by night,
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter, that infeebled mine.
Farewel, thou art too dear for my poflefling,
And, like enough, thou know't thy estimate :
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasings,
bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee, but by thy granting,
And for that riches, where is my deserving ?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my pateni back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking :
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In fleep a king, but waking, no such matter.
As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,