CIII.

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to fhow her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside !
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glafs, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not finful then, striving to mend,
To mar the fubject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verfe can fit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such feems your beauty ftill. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three fummers' pride,
Three beauteous fprings 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 faw 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 ftill 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 fummer dead.