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MY true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart:
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart.
Both equal hurt, in this change sought one bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
TIME wasteth years, and months, and hours:
Time doth consume fame, honour, wit and strength:
Time kills the greenest Herbs and sweetest flowers:
Time wears out youth and beauty's looks at length:
Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend,
And each thing else but Love, which hath no end.
Time maketh every tree to die and rot:
Time turneth oft our pleasures into pain:
Time causeth wars and wrongs to be forgot:
Time clears the sky, which first hung full of rain:
Time makes an end of all humane desire,
But only this, which sets my heart on Are.
Time turneth into naught each Princely state:
Time brings a flood from new resolved snow:
Time calms the Sea where tempest was of late:
Time eats whate'er the Moon can see below:
And yet no time prevails in my behove,
Nor any time can make me cease to love.
YOUTH made a fault through lightness of Belief,
Which fond Belief Love placed in my breast:
But now I find, that Reason gives relief;
And time shows Truth, and Wit that's bought, is best;
Muse not therefore although I change my vein,
He runs too far which never turns again.
Henceforth my mind shall have a watchful eye,
I'll scorn Fond Love, and practice of the same:
The wisdom of my heart shall soon descry
Each thing that's good, from what deserveth blame:
My song shall be; Fortune hath spit her spite,
And Love can hurt no more withal his might.
Therefore all you, to whom my course is known,
Think better comes, and pardon what is past;
I find that all my wildest Oats are sown,
And joy to see, what now I see at last;
And since that Love was cause I trod awry,
I here take off his Bells, and let him fly.
WHY live I, wretch, and see my joys decay,
Why live I and no hope of love's advancing:
Why do mine eyes behold the sunny day,
Why live I, wretch, in hope of better chancing.
O wherefore tells my tongue this doleful tale,
That every ear may hear my bitter plaint:
Was never heart that yet bemoan'd my bale,
Why live I, wretch, my pangs in vain to paint.
Why strive I 'gainst the stream or 'gainst the hill,
Why are my sorrows buried in the dust:
Why do I toil and lose my labour still,
Why do I feed on hope or build on trust.
Since hope had never hap and trust finds treason,
Why live I, wretch, disdain'd and see no reason?
LOOK, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush, and summer's honour!
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair:
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now:
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain;
But love now, while thou may'st be loved again.