CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As fubject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers
No, it was builded far from accident;

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled discontent,

[gather'd.

Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls :

It fears not policy, that heretic,

Which works on leases of short number'd hours,

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 lived for crime.

CXXV.

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,

Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not feen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound fweet foregoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?

No, let me be obfequious in thy heart,

And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with feconds, knows no art

But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence, thou fuborn'd informer! a true soul

When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Doft hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle, hour; Who haft by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering as thy fweet self grow'st; If Nature, fovereign mistress over wrack, As thou goeft onwards, ftill will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time difgrace 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 fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a bastard shame:
For fince 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 bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners feem
At fuch who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:

Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look fo.

CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st Upon that bleffed wood whose motion founds With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I

envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kifs the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilft my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be fo tickled, they would change their state
And fituation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bleft than living lips.
Since faucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.