Imagens das páginas



NO, Time' thou shalt not boast that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present nor the past;
For thy records, and what we see doth lye,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.

This I do vow, and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.


IF my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for fortune's bastard be un-feather’d; .
As subject to time's love or to time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flow'rs with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident,
It suffers not in smiling pomp, 'nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto ť inviting time our fashion calls:


It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic, .
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with show'rs.

To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.


WHERE it ought to be, I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring;
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or running.
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour,
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet, foregoing simple favour?
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent !
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart;
And take thou my oblation poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence thou suborn'd informer ! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, stands feast in thy controul.


[ocr errors][merged small]

HOW oft when thou thy music, music-play'st,
Upon that blessed wood, whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The witty concord that mine ear confounds;
Do I envy those jacks that nimbly leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness, by thee blushing stand.
To be so tickled they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait.
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.


TH' expense of spirit in a waste of shame,
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,
Past reason hated as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.


Made in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme,
A bliss in proof, and proud, and very woe;
Before, a joy propos’d; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


IN the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name :
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd; if not, lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem,
At such who not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.


I have seen roses, damask, red, and white ;
But no such roses see I in her cheeks ;
And in some perfumes there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That music hath a far more pleasing sound :
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love is rare
As any she, bely'd with false compare.

Thou art tyrannous, so thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel:
For well thou know'st to my dear doating heart
Thou art the fairest, and most precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone;
And to be sure that is not false I swear;
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
On one another's neck do witness bear :
Thy black is fairer in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

« AnteriorContinuar »