The ftrongest caftle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.
Serve always with affured truft,
And in thy fuit be humble true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Please never thou to chufe a-new.
When time shall ferve, be thou not flack
To proffer, tho' fhe put it back.
The wiles and guiles that women work,
Diffembled with an outward fhew
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them fhall not know.
Have you not heard it faid full oft,
A woman's nay doth ftand for nought?
Think women still to ftrive with men
To fin, and never for to faint:
There is no heaven (by holy then)
When time with age fhall them attaint.
Were kiffes all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.
But foft enough, too much I fear,
Left that my mistress hear my song;
She will not ftick to round me on th' ear,
To teach my tongue to be fo long.
Yet will the blufh, here be it faid,
To hear her fecrets fo bewraid.
Sin of felf-love poffeffeth all mine eye,
And all my foul, and all my every part;
And for this fin there is no remedy,
It is fo grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face fo gracious is, as mine;
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths furmount.
But when my glafs fhews me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity;
Mine own felf-love quite contrary I read,
Self, fo felf-loving, were iniquity:
'Tis thee (my felf) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Not marble, nor the gilded monument
Of princes, fhall out-live this powerful rhyme;
But you fhall fhine more bright in these contents,
Than unfwept ftone befmear'd with fluttish time.
When wafteful war fhall ftatues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry;
Nor Mars's fword, nor war's quick fire fhall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainft death, and all oblivious enmity,
Shall you pace forth; your praife shall still find room,
Even in the eyes of all pofterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So till the judgment, that yourself arife,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers eyes,
Familiarity breeds Centempt.
So am I as the rich, whofe bleffed key
Can bring him to his fweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of feldom pleasure,
Therefore are feafts fo folemn and fo rare;
Since feldom coming, in the long year fet,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carconet.
So is the time that keeps you, as my cheft,
Or as the wardrobe, which the robe doth hide,
To make fome fpecial inftant fpecial bleft,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Bleffed are you, whofe worthiness gives scope, Being had to triumph, being lack'd to hope.
Is it thy will, thy image fhould keep open.
My heavy eye-lids to the weary night?
Doft thou defire my flumbers fhould be broken,
While fhadows, like to thee, do mock my fight?
Is it thy fpirit that thou send'st from thee,
So far from home, into my deeds to pry?
To find out fhames, and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
O! no, thy love, tho' much is not fo great;
It is my love, that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love, that doth my reft defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy fake.
For thee watch I, whilft thou doft wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near,
No longer mourn for me when I am dead;
When you shall hear the furly fullen bell
Give warning to the world, that I am fled
From this vile world, with vileft worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your fweet thoughts wou'd be forgot,
If thinking on me then, fhould make you woe.
O! if (I fay) you look upon this verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay;
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay:
Left the wife world should look into your moan, after I am gone.
O! left the world fhould tafk you, to recite
What merit liv'd in me, that you fhould love;
After my death (dear love!) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove :
Unless you would devise fome virtuous lye,
To do more for me now, than mine own defert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart.
O! left your true love may feem falfe in this,
That you for love fpeak well of me untrue;
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to fhame nor me, nor you
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth;
And fo fhould you, to love things nothing worth.
But be contented, when that fell arreft,
Without all bail, fhall carry me away;
My life hath in this line fome intereft,
Which for memorial ftill with thee fhall ftay.
When thou revieweft this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due
My fprite is thine, the better part of me.
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conqueft of a wretch's knife,
Too bafe of thee to be rememb'red.
The worth of that, is that which it contains;
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
That thou art blam'd, fhall not be thy defect,
For flander's mark was ever yet the fair:
The ornament of beauty is fufpect
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, flander doth but approve
Their worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the fweeteft buds doth love,
And thou prefent'ft a pure unstained prime.
Thou haft paft by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or victor, being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be fo thy praife,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd;
If fome fufpect of ill, mafk not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe.
O how I faint, when I of you do write!
Knowing a better fpirit doth ufe your name;
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty'd, fpeaking of your fame.
But fince your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudeft fail doth bear;
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