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LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds fang.
In me thou fee'ft the twilight of such day
As, after funfet, fadeth in the weft;

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou fee'ft the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more ftrong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arreft
Without all bail fhall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was confecrate to thee:

The earth can have but earth, which is his due ;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me :
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conqueft of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.