LXXIX. Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid, Then thank him not for that which he doth fay, LXXX. O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! But fince your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My faucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Then if he thrive and I be caft away, The worst was this; my love was my decay. LXXXI. Or Or I shall live your epitaph to make, You still shall live-fuch virtue hath my pen — of men. LXXXII. I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, LXXXIII. I never faw that you did painting need, And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This filence for my fin you did impute, Which shall be moft my glory, being dumb; For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. |