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And each (tho' enemies to other's reign)
Do in consent shake hands to torture me ;
The one by toil, the other to complain,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven :
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars tweer out, thou gild'st th'even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem
[stronger. When in disgrace with fortune and mens eyes I all alone beweep my out-caft state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And lock upon myself and curse my fate : Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends poffeft; Defiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented leaft. Yet in these thoughts, myself almost despising) Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark, at break of day arising From fullen earth, to sing at heaven's gate.
For thy sweet love rememb'red, such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings,
Scarce had the sun dry'd up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade ;
When Cytherea (all in love forlorn).
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an ofer growing by a brook ;
A brcok, where Adon us'd to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day, the hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often here had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim ::
The fun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wiftly, as this queen on him :
He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
O! Jove! (quoth fhe) why was not I a flood ?:
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ;
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle ;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty:
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her z.
None fairer, nor none falser to deiace her.
Her lips to mine how often hath the joined, »
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing?
How many tales to please me hath the coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing ?
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were
She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as soon as straw out burning;
She fram’d the love, and yet she foild the framing..
She bad love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether ?
Bad at the best, tho' excellent in neither
The Benefit of Friendship.
When to the sessions of sweet Glent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my.
dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in death’s-dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell’d woe,
And moan th' expence of many a vanilh'd fight..
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'ër
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moany
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friends,
All loffes are restor'd, and forrows-end.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stoln from mine eye;
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
grave where buried love doth livex
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone ;-
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,-
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I lov’d, I view in thee,
And thou. (all they) haft all the all of me.
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl: deach my bones with dust shall
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover :
Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,
And tho' they be out stript by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their chime, -
Exceeded by the height of happier men,
Oh then vouchfafe me but this loving thuug!!
Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this, his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage :
But fince he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their stile I'll read, his for his love....
If:musick and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs (the Gifter and the brother)
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, ,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch *
Upon the lute, doth ravith human sense :
Spencer to me, whose "deep conceit is such,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the fweet melodious sound,
That Phæbus' lute (the queen of musick) makes ;. .
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One God is God of both (as poets fain)
One. knight loves both, and both in thee remain.is
Fåir was the morn, when the fair queen of love, Raler for forrow than her milk-white dove...
For Adon's fake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds,
She, filly queen, with more than love's good-will,
For bad the boy he should not pass those grounds :
Once (quoth she) did I see a fair sweet youth
Here iải these brakes, deep wounded with a boarg.
Deep in the thigh a spectacle of ruth;
See in my thigh (quoth (he) here was the fore :
She shewed hers, he saw more wounds than one,
And bluthing fled, and left her all alone.
How can my muse want subject to invent,
Whilst thou doft breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ?
Oh! give thyself the thanks, if ought in me,
Worthy perusal, stand against thy fight;
For who's so dull, that cannot write to thee;
When thou thyself doft give invention light?
Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth,
Than thcfe old Nine which shimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to out-live long date.
If my flight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
Ah! how thy worth with manners may I fing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love life name of angle one ;