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 favour,
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 foul

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 felf grow'ft;
If Nature, fovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goeft onwards, still 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.