XXIV. Not marble, not the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall 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 posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 3 PART SECOND. EP. I.] XXV. Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett'st so long And gives thy pen both skill and argument. And make Time's spoils despisèd everywhere. XXVI. O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends, But best is best, if never intermix'd ?'. Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how XXVII. My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming ; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days : Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song. XXVIII. Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, Than when it hath my added praise beside. Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; XXIX. To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green, Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived, For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. |