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The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My fprite is thine, the better part of me.
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conqueft 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.

Nil Magnis Invidia.

That thou art blam'd, fhall not be thy defect.
For flander's mark was ever yet the fair:
The ornament of beauty is fufpect;

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 time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou prefent'st a pure unftained prime.
Thou haft paft by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or victor, being charg'd;
Yet this thy praife cannot be fo thy praife,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd ;

If fome fufpect of ill, mafk not thy fhow,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should't owe -

Love Sick...

O how I faint, when I of you do write!
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name;
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty'd, fpeaking of your fame.
But fince your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudeft fail doth bear;

My faucy bark (inferior far to his)

On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your fhalloweft 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 caft 'away,
The worst was this, my love was my decays:

Or fhall I live your epitaph to make ?
Or you furvive, when I in earth am rotten? :
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Altho' in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Tho' I (once gone) to all the world muft 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 fhall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You ftill fhall live (fuch virtue hath my pen)
Where breath moft breathes, ev'n in the mouths-of

men...

The Picture of True Love.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,-
Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed 'mark,

That looks on tempefts, and is never fhaken ::

It is the ftar to every wand'ring, barky

Whofe worth's unknowa, altho' his height be taken.

Love's not time's fool, tho' rofy lips and cheeks.
With his bending fickle's compafs 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.

In Praife of his Love..

I grant thou wert not marry'd to my mufe,
And therefore may'ft without attaint o'er-look
The dedicated words which writers ufe
Of their fair fubject, bleffing 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 feek a-new
Some fresher ftamp of the time-bettering days:
And do fo love, yet when they have devis'd
What ftrained touches rhetorick can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly fympathiz'd,.
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
And their grofs painting might be better us'd,
Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abus'd.

I never faw that you did painting need,
And therefore to you fair no painting fet:
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, KHow 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 fhall be most my glory, being dumb;...

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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 praise devife.

Who is it, that fays moft, which can fay more-
Than this rich praife, that you alone are you?
In whofe confine immured is the ftore,

Which fhould example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his fubject lends not fome fmall 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 fo clear ;.
And fuch a counterpart fhall fame his writ,
Making him ftill admir'd every where.

You to your beauteous bleffing add a curse,
Being fond of praife, which makes your praifes
worse.

My tongue-ty'd mafe in manners holds her ftill,
While comments of your praife, richly compil'd,
Referve their character with golden quilt,

And precious phrafe by all the mufes fill'd.

I think good thoughts, whilft others write good words,
And, like unletter'd clerk, ftill cry Amen.
To every hymn that able fpirit affords,
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praifed, I fay 'tis fo, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise add fomething 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, refpec;
Me for my dumb thoughts, fpeaking in effect.

A Refignation.

Was it the proud full fail of his great 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 fpirit, by fpirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he nor his compeers by night.
Giving him aid, my verfe aftonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghoft,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,.
As victors, of my filence cannot boast;
I was not fick 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 poffeffing,
And, like enough, thou know'ft thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releafing;.
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee, but by thy granting,
And for that riches, where is my deferving?.
The caufe of this fair gift in me is wanting,.
And fo my patent back again is fwerving.
Thyself thou gav❜ft, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'ft it, else mistaking:
So thy great gift upon mifprifion 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 fuch matter..

Sympathizing Love.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

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