CXXIV. If my dear love were but the child of state, 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, Which prove more short than waste or ruining? No, let me be obfequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, 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, Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe, 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, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. |