And soon to you, as yon to me, then tender'd The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee: Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me; CXXI.

Tis better to be vile, than vile esteem'd,

When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, [good?
Which in their wills count bad what I think
No, I am that I am; and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be
bevel;
[be shewn;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not
Unless this general evil they maintain-
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.
CXXII.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity:
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.

No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids, built up with newer might, To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old; And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them Thy registers and thee I both defy, [told

Not wondering at the present nor the past; For thy records and what we see do lie,

Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee!
CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As subject to time's love, or to time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers
No, it was builded far from accident; [gather'd.
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic, [hours,
Which works on leases of short-number'd

But all alone stands hugely politic, [showers.
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for
crime.

CXXV.

Were it aught to me I bore the canopy,

With my extern the outward honouring, [ruining?

Or lay'd great bases for eternity,

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent;
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No;-let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy
control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein
shew'st

Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st;
If nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards,still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose; that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure;
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure:
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII.

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 successive heir,

And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame: For since 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 hour,

Put is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited; and they mourners seem At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Slandering creation with a false esteem: Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says, beauty should look so. CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers,when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that har vest reap, [stand!

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more bless'd than living Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, [lips. Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, [cruel; As those whose beauties proudly make them 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 To say they err, I dare not be so bold, groan.

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, proceeds.

CXXXII.

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: O, let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee And suit thy pity like in every part. [grace, Then will I swear, beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack. CXXXIII.

groan

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to [me! For that deep wound it gives my, friend and Is't not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, [be? And my next self thou harder hast engross'd; Of him, myself and thee, I am forsaken;

A torment thrice threefold 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 keep me, let my heart be his guard: Thou canst not then use rigour in my gacl: And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV.

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 my comfort still
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
Ile learn'd but, surety-like, to write for me.
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind,|

The statue of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;

So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me;
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
CXXXV.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
And will to boot, and will in over-plus:

To thy sweet will making addition thus

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Shall will in others seem right gracions,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

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
CXXXVI.

If thy soul check thee, that I come so near, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

In

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. things of great receipt with ease we prove;

Among a number one is reckon'd uone:

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 Will. CXXXVII.'

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 lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is ty'd? 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'd, And to this false plague are they now trans[ferr'd,

CXXXVIII.

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 subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;

On both sides thus is simple truth supptest But wherefore says she not, she is unjust? And wherefore say not I, that I am old? O love's best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love loves not to have years told Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

CXXXIX.

O, call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

tongue;

Use power with power, and slay me not by art. Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in iny sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside. What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might

Is more than my o'er-press'd defence can 'bide? Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies. And therefrom my face she turns my foes,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, Kill me out-right with looks, and rid my pain. CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-ty'd patience with too much disdain;

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so; (As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know;)

For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee: Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou bely'd, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note.
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote,
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune de-
lighted;

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who lives unsway'd the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:

Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.

CXLII.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving;
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shall find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments, And seal'd false bands of love as oft as mine Robb'd others' beds revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example may'st thou be deny'd!

CXLIII

Lo, as a careful house-wife runs to catch

One of her feather'd creatures broke away, Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

CXLIV.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breath'd forth the sound that said I hate,
To me that languish'd for her sake;

But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet
Was us'd in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus a-new to greet;
I hate, she alter'd with an end,

That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away;
I hate from hate away she threw,

And sav'd my life, saying-not you.
CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee arTAY Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And, death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with ever-more unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth rainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought the bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

it saw

rage,

The carcase of a beauty spent and done.
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell
[age.
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her level'd eyes their carriage ride,
As they did battery to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are ty'd
To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and no where fix'd,
The mind and sight distractedly commix'd
Her hair, nor loose, nor ty'd in formal plat,
Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride;
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheav'd hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And, true to bondage, would not break from
thence,

Though slackly braided in loose negligence.
A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of bedded jet,
Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set;
Like usury, applying wet to wet,

Or monarch's hands, that let not bounty fall
Where want cries some, but where excess begs

all.

These often bath'd she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear;
Cry'd, O false blood! thou register of lies,
What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
Ink would have seem'd more black and damned
here.

This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.
A reverend man that graz'd his cattle nigh,
(Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
Of court, of city, and had let go by
The swiftest hours,) observed as they flew:
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;
And, privileged by age, desires to know
In brief, the grounds and motives of her woe.
So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught apply'd,
Which may her suffering ecstacy assuage,
'Tis promis'd in the charity of age.
Father, she says, though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgment I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-apply'd
Love to myself, and to no love beside.
But woe is me! too early I attended
A youthful suit (it was to gain my grace)
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face:
Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodg'd, and newly deified.
His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls,
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind;
For on his visage was in little drawn,
What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.
Small shew of man was yet upon his chin;
His phoenix down began but to appear,
Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
Whose bare out-brag'd the web it seem'd to