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And I a tyrant have no leisure taken,

To weigh how once I fuffer'd in your crime.

Oh! that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest fenfe, how hard true forrow hits,
And foon to you, as you to me then tendered
The humble falve, which wounded bofoms fits!
But that your trefpafs now becomes a fee,

Mine ranfoms

yours, and yours muft ransom me.

Error in Opinion.

"Tis better to be vile than vile efteem'd,
When not to be, receives reproach of being;
And the juft pleasure loft, which is fo deem'd,
Not by our feeling, but by others feeing.
For why should others falfe adulterate eyes
Give falutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties, why are frailer spies ;-
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that lever

At my abuses, reckon up their own;

I may be ftreight, tho' they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,

All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

Upon the Receipt of a Table-Book from his Mistress.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain,
Full character'd with a lafting memory,
Which fhall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity;

Or at the leaft, fo long as brain and heart:
Have faculty by nature to fubfift;

Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be mist.
That poor retention could not fo much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me, was I bold
To truft thofe tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

A Vow.

No, Time! thou shalt not boaft that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but drellings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou doft foift upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our defire,
Than think that we before have heard them told..
Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wond'ring at the prefent nor the past;
For thy records, and what we see doth lye,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
and this fhall ever be;

If

This I do vow,

I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee

my

Love's Safety.

dear love were but the child of state,

It might for fortune's baftard be un-father'd;

As fubject to time's love, or to time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd..
No, it was builded far from accident,

It fuffers not in fmiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled difcontent,

Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls :

It fears not policy, that heretick,

Which works on leafes of thort number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politick,

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with fhowers.
To this I witnefs call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.

An Intreaty for her Acceptance.

Where it ought to be, I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring;
Or laid great bafes for eternity,

Which prove more fhort than wafle or ruining.
Have I not feen dwellers on form and favour,
Lofe all, and more, by paying too much rent
For compound fweet, foregoing fimple favour?
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent,

No, let me be obfequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with feconds, knows po art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence thou fuborn'd informer! a true foul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy controul.

Upon her playing on the Virginals.

How oft when thou thy mufick, musick-play'ft,
Upon that bleffed wood, whofe motion founds
With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently fway'ft
The witty concord that mine ear confounds;
Do I envy thofe jacks that nimble leap,
To kifs the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilft my poor lips, which fhould that harveft reap,
At the wood's boldness, by thee blushing stand
To be fo tickled they would change their state,
And fituation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks fo happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Immoderate Luft.

Th' expence of fpirit in a waste of fhame,
Is luft in action; and till action, luft
Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no fooner, but despised freight,.
Paft reafon hunted, and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated as a fwallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Made in purfuit and in poffeffion fo,
Had, having, and in queft, to have exetreme,
A blifs in proof, and proud and every woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well
To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

In praife of her beauty, though black.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name:
But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a baflard shame:
For fince each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd; if not, lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners feem,
At fuch who not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a falfe efteem:

Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue fays beauty should look fo..

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red;

If fnow be white,

If hairs be wires,

why then her breasts are dun;

black wires grow on her head.
I have feen rofes, damafk, red, and white;:
But no fuch-rofes fee I in her cheeks:
And in fome perfumes there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from my miftrefs reeks
I love to hear her fpeak, yet well I know,
That mufick hath a far more pleasing found::
I grant I never faw a goddess go;

My mistress, when the walks, treads on the ground :
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare.
As any fhe, bely'd with falfe compare.

Thou art tyrannous, so thou art,

As those whofe beauties proudly make them cruel: ·
For well thou know'ft to my dear doating heart, -
Thou art the faireft, and moft precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan ; →
To fay they err, I dare not be fo bold,

Altho' I fwear it to myself alone.

And to be fure that is not false I swear;

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,,

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