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And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair :

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, One blushing shame, another white despair ;
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of botii,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

But for his theft, in pride of all his growth That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ;

But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
Naming tny name blesses an ill report.
0, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee!
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett'st so long
And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see!

To speak of that wbich gives thee all thy might? Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light" The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

Returi, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness ;

And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Some say, thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less :

If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen

If any, be a satire to decay,

And make Time's spoils despised everywhere.
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd;
So are those errors that in thee are seen

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life To truths translated, and for true things deem'l.

So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked kuife. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyd! But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,

“Truth needs no colour with his colour tix d, How like a winter hath my absence been

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

But best is best, if never intermix'd!"What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? What old December's bareness everywhere!

Excuse not silence so; for it lies in thee And yet this time remov'd' was summer's time;

To make him much outlive a gilded comb, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease :

To make him seem long hence as he shows now. Yet this abundant issue seem d to me But hope of orphavs, and unfather'd fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

My love is strengthen d, though more weak in seenisz, And, thon

the very birds are mute;

I love not less, though less the show appear;
Or, if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer,

That love is inerchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays; From you nave I been absent in the spring,

As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

Not thai the summer is less pleasant now That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Than when her mournful hymns did hush the niglk Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

But that wild music burthens every hough, Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

And sweets grown common lose their dear deligtit. Could make me any summer's story tell,

Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :

Because I would not dull you with my song.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Alack! what poverty my muse brings forth,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

That having such a scope to show lier pride, Yet seemd it winter still, and, you away,

The argument, all bare, is of more worth, As with your shadow I with these did play: Than when it hath my added praise beside.

() blame me not if I no more can write!

Look in your glass, and there appears a face
The forward violet thus did I chide :--
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, Dulling my lines, and doing me disyrace.

That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,

To mar the subject that before was well! In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.

For to no other pass my verses tend, The lily I condemned for thy hand,

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; * Malone explains this as, "This time in which I was remote

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, or absent from thee."

Your own glass shows you, when you look in it





Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair nane.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page ;

Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it


To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'i,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters' cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen;
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.




0, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify!
As easy might I from myself depart,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang d,
Like him that travels, I return again;
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd, -
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be,
To of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse, to constancy confin`d,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous affords.

Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.




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When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of band, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express d
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring ;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing :

For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Alas, 't is true, I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motleya to the view,
Gor'db mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most

Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done, haved what shall have no end :
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A God in love, to whom I am confind.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.



O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means, which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand :
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eysell,e 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.


Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos d as forfeit to a contin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endurid,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assuril,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, a
Since spite of him I 'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit ?
What 's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same;

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow ?!

* Motley was the dress of the domestic fool, or jester; and thus the buffoon himself came to be called a motley.

b Gir'd-wounded.

d Have. This is the word of the old copy. The reading of all modern editions is

" Now all is done, save what shall have no end." Now all is done" clearly applies to the blenches, the works essays; but the poet then adds, ' have thou what shall have uo end,"—my constant affection, my undivided friendship. e Eysell-rinegar.

1 Allore-approve.

Subscrites-submits—acknowledges as a superior.





You are niy all-the-world, and I must strive

If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
To know my shames and praises from your tongue; I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
None else to me, por I to none alive,
That my steel d sense or changes, right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care

Accuse me thus; that I have scanted all
Of other's voices, that my ardder's sense

Wherein I should your great deserts repay; To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Mark how with my neglect I do dispense

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

That I have frequent been with unknown minds, That all the world besides methinks are dead. And given to time your own dear-purchas d right;

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

Book both my wilfulness and errors down, And that which governs me to go about

And on just proof surmise accumulate, Doth part his function, and is partly blind,

Bring me within the level of your frown, Seems seeing, but ellectually is out;

But shoot not at me in your waken 'd hate :
For it no form delivers to the heart

Since my appeal says, I did strive to prore
Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch ;* The constancy and virtue of your love.
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

Nor his own visiou holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
The most sweet favour, or deformed 'st creature,

With eager" compounds we our palate urge; The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

As, to prevent our maladies unseen, The crow, or dove, it shares them to your feature.

We sicken to shun sickness, wlien we purge ; Incapable of more, replete with you,

Even so, being full of your near-cloying sweetness, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. C

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

To be diseas'd, ere that there was true ueeting. Or whether doth my mind, heing crown'd with you,

Thus policy in love, to anticipate Drink up the monaruh's plague, this tiattery,

The ills that were not, grew to faults assurd, Or whether shall I say mine eye saith trne,

And brought to medicine a healthful state, And that your love taught it this alchymy,

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured. To make of monsters and things indigest

But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,

Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
0, 't is the first; 't is flattery in my seeing,

What potions have I drunk of Syren tears,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

Distill d from limbecs foul as hell within, Mine eye well knows what with bis gust is 'greeing, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, And to his palate doth prepare the cup:

Still losing when I saw my-elf to win! If it be poison’d, 't is the lesser sin

What wretched errors hath my heart committed, That mine eye loves it, and doth tirst begin.

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,

In the distraction of this madding serer!
Those lines that I before have writ, do lie;

O benefit of ill! now I find true Even those that said I could not love you dearer;

That better is by evil still made better; Yet then my judginent knew no reason why

And ruind love, when it is built anew, My most full flame should afterwards buru clearer. Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. But reckoning time, whose million d accidents

So I relurn rebuk'd to my contenta Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Aud gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; Alas! why, tearing ut Time's tyranny,

That you were once unkind, befriends me now, Might I not then say, “ Now I love you best,"

And for that serrow, which I then did feel, When I was certain o'er incertainty,

Needs must I under my transgression bw, Crowning the present doubting of the rest ?

Unless my nerves were brass or hammerd steel. Love is a babe ; then might I not say so,

For if you were by my unkindness shaken, To give full growth to that which still doth grow? As I by yours, you have pass d a hell of time;

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

To weigh how once I sufler'd in your crime. Let me not to the marriage of true minds

O that our night of woe might have remember d. Admit impediments. Love is not love

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, Which alters when it alteration finds,

And soon to you, as you to me, then tenderd Or bends with the remover to remove :

The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

But that your trespass now becomes a fee; That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth 's unknowu, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's tool, though rosy lips and cheeks 'T is better to be vile than vile esteem.d, Within his bending sickle's compass come;

When not to be receives reproach of being, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemd But bears it out even to the edye of doom.

Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. Latch signifies to lay hold of. b Favour-countenance.

a Eager-sour; the French aigre. < Untrue is here used as a substantive.

Fittea-subjected to fits. e Remerbird-remibiad.







For why should others' false adulterate eyes

Which is not mix'd with seconds.a knows no art, Give salutation to my sportive blood ?

But mutual render, only me for thee. Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Hence, thou suborn d informer! a true soul, Which in their wills count bad what I think good ? When most impeachd, stands least in thy control. No.-I am that I am; and they that level

CXXVI. At my abuses, reckon


their own :
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ;- O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Unless this general evil they maintain,-

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st All men are bad, and in their baduess reign.

Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st!
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill Full character'd with lasting memory,

May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Which shall above that idle rank remain,

Yet fear her, I thou minion of her pleasure ; Beyond all date, even to eternity :

She may detain, but not still keep, hier treasure : Or at the least so long as brain and heart

Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, Have faculty by nature to subsist;

And her quietus is to render thee.
Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record vever can be miss'l.
That poor retention could not so much hold,"

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

But now is black beanty's successive heir, To trust those tables that receive thee more :

Anu beauty slanderd with a bastard shame : To keep an adjunct to remember thee,

For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Were to impuri forgetfulness in me.

Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,

Sweet beanty bath no name, no holy hour,

But is profan d, if not lives in disgrace.
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might

Her eyes so suited ; and they mourners seem
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack, They are but dressings of a former sight.

Slandering creation with a false esteem: Our dates are brief, and therefore we aimire

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, W'hat thou dost foist upon 118 that is old ;

That every tongue says, beauty should look so. And rather make them burn to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy,

How oft, when thon, my music, music play'st, Not wondering at the present nor the past;

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds For thy records and what we see do lie,

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st Maile more or less by thy continual haste :

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, This I do vow, and this shall ever be,

Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap I wili be true, despite thy scythe and thee;

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reat, cxxiv.

At the wood's boldness by thee blusling stand! If my dear love were but the child of state,

To be so tickled, they would ch inge their state It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather d,

And situation with those dancing chips, As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with genile gait, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather d. Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips. No, it was builded far from accident;

Since sauey jacks so happy are in this
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
Under the blow of thralied discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls :
It fears not policy, that heretic,

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, Is last in action; and till action, lust
But all alone stands hugely politic,

Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blarne,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
To this I witness call the fools of tine,

Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight;
Which die for goodness, who have liv‘d for crime. Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad : Were it aught to me I bore the canopy,

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; With my extern the outward honouring,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; Or laid great bases for eternity,

A bliss in proof,—and prov'd, a very woe; Which prove more short than waste or ruining ? Before, a joy propos d ; behind, a dream : Have I not seeu dwellers on form and favour

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. For compound sweet foregoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ?

CXXX. No;- let me be obsey::'ous in thy heart,

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ; And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

Coral is far more red than her lips' red. 1 Berel-hent in an angle.

& Seconds. The poet's friend has his chief oblation: no seconds, • Malone says, " That poor retentron is the table book giren or inferior persons, are mixed up with his tribute of affectio. to him by his friend, incapable of retaining, or rather of con- ! b Jacks --the small hammers, moved by the keys, wlick taiping, so much as the tablet of the brain.'

strike the strings of a virgival.



If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak,-yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,-
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him bave I lost; thou hast both bim and me;
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

cxxxv. Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And will to boot, and will in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine! Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine! The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store; So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will One will of mine, to make thy large will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one Will.


Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceed



If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one,
Ili things of great receipt with ease we prove;
Among a number one is reckon'd none.
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'st me,- for my name is litt

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain ;
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face :
0, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.



Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is 't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be ?
Me from myself tl y cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder bast engross'd ;
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross d.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail ;
Who e'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol :

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lica
Yet what the best is, take the worst to bt.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchord in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place!
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

In things right true my heart and eyes have err il,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'a..

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies;
That she might think me some untutor d youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtilties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me youn;,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth supprest.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust ?
And wherefore say not I that I am old ?
0, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years tolů :

Therefore I lie with her, and she with tne,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be

cxxxix. 0, call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my bear; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue; Use power with power, and slay me not by art,


So now I have confess d that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will;
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be iny comfort still :
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind !
He learn'd but, surety-like, to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statutes of thy beanty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use,

* Statute-security, or obligation.

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