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No April can revive thy withered flowers

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift, speedy Time, feathered with Aying hours,

Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now, whilst thou mayst be loved again.


At length extremity breaks out a way
Through which th' imprisoned voice, with tears

Wails out a sound that sorrows do bewray; 801
With arms across, and eyes to heaven bended,
Vapouring out sighs that to the skies ascended;

Sighs (the poor ease calamity affords)
Which serve for speech when sorrow wanteth



Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,

Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light;

With dark forgetting of my care, return! And let the day be time enough to mourn

The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,

Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,

To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars,

To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

“O heavens," quoth he, “why do mine eyes be

hold The hateful rays of this unhappy sun? Why have I light to see my sins controlled With blood of mine own shame thus vildly done! How can my sight endure to look thereon? 810

Why doth not black eternal darkness hide

That from mine eyes my heart cannot abide ?
“What saw my life wherein my soul might joy?
What had my days, whom troubles still afflicted,
But only this, to counterpoise annoy?
This joy, this hope, which Death haih interdicted;
This sweet, whose loss hath all distress inflicted;

This, that did season all my sour of life,
Vexed still at home with broils, abroad in




Vexed still at home with broils, abroad in strife,
Dissension in my blood, jars in my bed; 821
Distrust at board, suspecting still my life,
Spending the night in horror, days in dread,
Such life hath Tyrants and this life I led;

These miseries go masked in glittering shows,
Which wise men see, the vulgar little knows."

Let others sing of Knights and Paladins

In aged accents and untimely words;
Paint shadows in imaginary lines

Which well the reach of their high wits records: But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes

Authentic shall my verse in time to come; When yet th' unborn shall say, “Lo where she

lies Whose beauty made him speak that else was

These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,

That fortify thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect

Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage. Though the error of my youth in them appear, Suffice they shew I lived and loved thee dear.


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"Pitiful mouth," saith he, "that living gavest
The sweetest comfort that my soul could wish;
O be it lawful now that dead thou havest
This sorrowing farewell of a dying kiss.
And you fair eyes, containers of my bliss,

Motives of love, born to be matched never,
Entombed in your sweet circles sleep forever.

Amazed he stands, nor voice nor body stirs; Words had no passage, tears no issue found; For sorrow shut up words, wrath kept in tears; Confused affects each other do confound; Opprest with grief, his passions had no bound.

Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak when mighty griefs are


“Ah, how methinks I see Death dallying seeks
To entertain itself in Love's sweet place; 842
Decayed roses of discoloured cheeks
Do yet retain dear notes of former grace;
And ugly Death sits fair within her face;

Sweet remnants resting of vermilion red,
That Death itself doubts whether she be dead.

“Wonder of beauty, oh, receive these plaints, These obsequies, the last that I shall make thee; For lo, my soul that now already faints 850 (That loved thee living, dead will not forsake

thee) Hastens her speedy course to overtake thee.

I'll meet my death, and free myself thereby; For, ah, what can he do that cannot die?


“Yet ere I die thus much my soul doth vow,
Revenge shall sweeten death with ease of mind;
And I will cause posterity shall know
How fair thou wert above all women-kind;
And after ages monuments shall find

Shewing thy beauty's title, not thy name, 860
Rose of the world that sweetened so the same.”

Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow
Of Pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes;
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he

The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But himself, and knows the worst can fall.

Altho' his heart, so near allied to earth,
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Affliction upon imbecility:
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done.

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And is encompass'd; whilst as craft deceives, 50 And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man, And builds on blood, and rises by distress; And th' inheritance of desolation leaves To great-expecting hopes: he looks thereon, As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, And bears no venture in impiety.




COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND He that of such a height hath built his mind, And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved pow'rs; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same: What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey !

And with how free an eye doth he look down Upon these lower regions of turmoil! Where all the storms of passions mainly beat On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' wars But only as on stately robberies; Where evermore the fortune that prevails Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprise. Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails: Justice, he sees (as if seducèd), still Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.

He sees the face of Right t appear as manifold As are the passions of uncertain man; Who puts it in all colours, all attires, To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. He sees, that let deceit work what it can, Plot and contrive base ways to high desires, 30 That the all-guiding Providence doth yet All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit.

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks

Sacred Religion ! Mother of Form and Fear! How gorgeously sometimes dost thou sit decked! What pompous vestures do we make thee wear, What stately piles we prodigal erect, How sweet perfumed thou art, how shining clear, How solemnly observed, with what respect! 300

Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare; Thou must have all within, and nought without; Sit poorly without light, disrobed, Of outward grace, to amuse the poor devout; Powerless, unfollowed; scarcely men can spare The necessary rites to set thee out!

no care

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And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world; which with a few Do ever live, and move, and work, and stir. This is the heart doth feel and only know. The rest of all, that only bodies bear, Roll up and down, and fill up but the row, 560

And serve as others members, not their own, The instruments of those that do direct. Then what disgrace is this, not to be known To those know not to give themselves respect ? And though they swell with pomp of folly

They live ungrac'd, and die but in Neglect.

And for my part, if only one allow
The care my labouring spirits take in this,

But, be it that thy body subject be

To no such sickness or the like annoy, Yet if thy Conscience be not firm and free,

Riches are trash, and Honour's but a toy ! This Peace of Conscience is the perfect joy Wherewith God's children in the world be

blest : Wanting the which, as good want all the




He is to me a Theater large enow,
And his applause only sufficient is.

570 All my respect is bent but to his brow, That is my All; and all I am, is his.

And if some worthy spirits be pleased too,
It shall more comfort breed, but not

But what if none? It cannot yet undo
The love I bear unto this holy skill.
This is the thing that I was born to do,
This is my Scene, this part must I fulfil.

Let those that know not breath, esteem of wind,
And set t'a vulgar air their servile song; 580
Rating their goodness by the praise they find,
Making their worth on others' fits belong;
As Virtue were the hireling of the mind,
And could not live if Fame had ne'er a tongue.

Hath that all-knowing power that holds within The goodly prospective of all this frame, (Where, whatsoever is, or what hath been, Reflects a certain image of the same) No inward pleasures to delight her in, But she must gad to seek an alms of Fame?

The want thereof made Adam hide his head!

The want of this made Cain to wail and weep! This want, alas, makes many go to bed,

When they, God wot, have little list to sleep.
Strive, oh, then strive, to entertain and keep

So rich a jewel, and so rare a guest !
Which being had, a rush for all the rest ! 20







Were I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble

swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain,

And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Whatsoe'er you were, with you my love should

go! Were you the earth, dear Love! and I, the skies;

My love should shine on you, like to the sun! And look upon you, with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven waxed blind! and till the world

were done! Wheresoe'er I am, — below, or else above, you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love


Into these Loves, who but for Passion looks;

At this first sight, here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books,

Which better may his labour satisfy. No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast; Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring; Nor in “Ah me's!” my whining sonnets drest ! A libertine! fantasticly I sing !

My verse is the true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change;
And as thus, to variety inclined,
So in all humours sportively I range !

My Muse is rightly of the English strain,
That cannot long one fashion entertain.




Bright Star of Beauty! on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured Graces,
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit,
Which there in order take their several places.

In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious Love
Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear,
Since he that blessèd paradise did prove;
And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him

there. Let others strive to entertain with words ! My soul is of a braver mettle made: I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords, In me's that faith which Time cannot invade!

Let what I praise be still made good by you ! Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true!


To shine in silk, and glister all in gold,

To flow in wealth, and feed on dainty fare,
To have thy houses stately to behold,
Thy prince's favour, and the people's care:

The groaning gout, the colic, or the stone, 5
Will mar thy mirth, and turn it all to moan!


Whilst in despite of tyrannizing Times, Medea-like, I make thee young again, Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing

rhymes, And murder'st Virtue with thy coy disdain ! And though in youth my youth untimely

To keep thee from oblivion and the grave,
Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish,
Where I entombed, my better part shall save;

And though this earthly body fade and die,
My name shall mount upon Eternity!

An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest; Which ceaseth not to attempt me to each ill, Nor give me once, but one poor minute's rest.

In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake; And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity.

Before my face, it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death; Now tempting me, to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath.

Thus am I still provoked to every evil,
By this good-wicked Spirit, sweet Angel-Devil.





I hear some say, “This man is not in love !” “Who! can he love? a likely thing !” they say. "Read but his verse, and it will easily prove !” 0, judge not rashly, gentle Sir, I pray!

Because I loosely trifle in this sort, As one that fain his sorrows would beguile, You now suppose me, all this time, in sport, And please yourself with this conceit the while.

Ye shallow Censures! sometimes, see ye not,
In greatest perils some men pleasant be?
Where Fame by death is only to be got,
They resolute! So stands the case with me.

Where other men in depth of passion cry,
I laugh at Fortune, as in jest to die !

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and

part ! Nay, I have done; you get no more of me! And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free.

Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows ! And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retain !

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; 10 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him

over, From death to life thou might'st him yet re



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Dear! why should you command me to my rest,
When now the night doth summon all to sleep?
Methinks this time becometh lovers best!
Night was ordained together friends to keep.

How happy are all other living things,
Which, through the day, disjoined by several

flight, The quiet evening yet together brings, And each returns unto his Love at night!

O thou that art so courteous else to all,
Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus?
That every creature to his kind dost call,
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us!

Well could I wish it would be ever day;
If, when night comes, you bid me go away!

You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,

That honour still pursue;

Go and subdue ! Whilst loitering hinds

Lurk here at home with shame.


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Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee,
Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face,
Where, in the map of all my misery,
Is modelled out the world of my disgrace.

Your course seci

ecurely steer, West-and-by-south forth keep!

Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,

When Eolus scowls,
You need not fear,
So absolute the deep.

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