LXXIX.

Whilft I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my fick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, fweet love, thy lovely argument
Deferves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.

Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

F

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 proudeft fail doth bear,
My faucy bark, inferior far to his,

On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shalloweft help will hold me up afloat,
Whilft he upon your foundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:

Then if he thrive and I be caft away,

The worst was this; my love was my decay.