LIV.

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous feem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rofe looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,

Hang on fuch thorns, and play as wantonly

When fummer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade ;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not fo;

Of their fweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And fo of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, fhall outlive this powerful rime;
But

you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war fhall ftatues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars his fword nor war's quick fire fhall burn The living record of your memory.

'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room

Even in the eyes of all pofterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharp'ned in his former might: So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, To-morrow fee again, and do not kill

The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this fad interim like the ocean be

Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more bleft may be the view;

Or call it winter, which, being full of care, Makes fummer's welcome thrice more wish'd,

more rare.

.LVII.

Being your flave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your defire?

I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor fervices to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

Whilft I, my fovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence four

When you

have bid your fervant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a fad flave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will,

Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That god forbid that made me first your flave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vaffal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me fuffer, being at your beck,

The imprison'd absence of your liberty;

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accufing you of injury.

Be where you lift, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of felf-doing crime.

I am to wait, though waiting fo be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.