Now ftand you on the top of happie houres,
And many maiden gardens yet vnfet,
With vertuous with would beare your liuing flowers,
Much liker then your painted counterfeit :
So should the lines of life that life repaire
Which this (times penfel or my pupill pen)
Neither in inward worth nor outward faire
Can make you liue your felfe in eies of men,
To giue away your felfe, keeps your felfe ftill,
And you must liue drawne by your owne sweet skill,
WHO will beleeue my verfe in time to come
If it were fild with your most high deferts?
Though yet heauen knowes it is but as a tombe
Which hides your life, and fhewes not halfe your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would fay this poet lies,
Such heauenly touches nere toucht earthly faces.
So fhould my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be fcorn'd, like old men of leffe truth then tongue,
And your true rights be termd a poets rage,
And stretched miter of an antique fong.
But were fome childe of yours aliue that time,
You should liue twife in it, and in my rime.
HALL I compare thee to a fummers day? Thou art more louely and more temperate : Rough windes do fhake the darling buds of Maie, And fommers leafe hath all too fhort a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heauen fhines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
And euery faire from faire fome-time declines,
By chance, or natures changing courfe vntrim'd:
But thy eternall fommer fhall not fade,
Nor loofe poffeffion of that faire thou ow'st,
Nor fhall death brag thou wandr'ft in his fhade,
When in eternall lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breath or eyes can see,
So long liues this, and this giues life to thee,
DEuouring time blunt thou the lyons pawes,
And make the earth deuoure her owne sweet brood,
Plucke the keene teeth from the fierce tygers yawes,
And burne the long liu'd Phænix in her blood,
Make glad and forry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do what ere thou wilt fwift-footed time
To the wide world and all her fading fweets:
But I forbid thee one moft hainous crime,
O carue not with thy howers my loues faire brow,
Nor draw noe lines there with thine antique pen.
Him in thy course vntainted doe allow,
For beauties patterne to fucceding men.
Yet doe thy worft ould time difpight thy wrong,
My loue fhall in my verse euer liue young.
Womans face with natures owne hand painted,
Hafte thou the mafter miftris of my paffion,
A womans gentle hart but not acquainted
With fhifting change as is falfe womens fashion,
An eye more bright then theirs, lesse false in rowling:
Gilding the obiect where-vpon it gazeth,
A man in hew all hews in his controwling,
Which steales mens eyes and womens foules amaseth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a dotinge,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpofe nothing.
But fince the prickt thee out for womens pleasure,
Mine be thy loue and thy loues vse their treasure.
O is it not with me as with that mufe,
Stird by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heauen it felfe for ornament doth vse,
And euery faire with his faire doth reherse,
Making a coopelment of proud compare
With funne and moone, with earth and feas rich gems:
With Aprills first borne flowers and all things rare,
That heauens ayre in this huge rondure hems,
O let me true in loue but truly write,
And then beleeue me, my loue is as faire,
As any mothers childe, though not fo bright
As thofe gould candells fixt in heauens ayer:
Let them fay more that like of heare-fay well,
I will not prayse that purpose not to fell.
MY glaffe fhall not perfwade me I am ould,
So long as youth and thou are of one date, But when in thee times forrwes I behould, Then look I death my daies fhould expiate.
For all that beauty that doth couer thee,
Is but the feemely rayment of my heart,
Which in thy breft doth liue, as thine in me.
How can I then be elder then thou art ?
O therefore loue be of thy felfe fo wary,
As I not for my felfe, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart which I will keepe so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill,
Prefume not on thy heart when mine is flaine,
Thou gau'ft me thine not to giue backe againe.
XXIII.
S an vnperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his feare is put befides his part,
Or fome fierce thing repleat with too much rage,
Whofe ftrengths abondance weakens his owne heart;
So I for feare of truft, forget to fay,
The perfect ceremony of loues right,
And in mine owne loues ftrength seeme to decay,
Ore-charg'd with burthen of mine owne loues might:
O let my books be then the eloquence,
And domb prefagers of my speaking breft,
Who pleade for loue, and look for recompence,
More then that tonge that more hath more exprest.
O learne to read what filent loue hath writ,
To heare wit eies belongs to loues fine wiht.
MINE eye hath play'd the painter and hath steeld,
Thy beauties forme in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein ti's held,
And perfpectiue it is beft painters art.
For through the painter muft you fee his skill,
To finde where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosomes shop is hanging stil,
That hath his windowes glazed with thine eyes:
Now fee what good-turnes eyes for eies have done,
Mine eyes haue drawne thy fhape, and thine for me
Are windowes to my breft, where-through the fun
Delights to peepe, to gaze therein on thee
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art
They draw but what they fee, know not the hart.
ET those who are in fauor with their stars,
Of publike honour and proud titles boft,
Whilft I whome fortune of fuch tryumph bars
Vnlookt for ioy in that I honour most;
Great princes fauorites their faire leaues fpread,
But as the marygold at the funs eye,
And in them-felues their pride lies buried,
For at a frowne they in their glory die.
The painefull warrier famosed for worth,
After a thoufand victories once foild,
Is from the booke of honour rafed quite,
And all the reft forgot for which he toild:
Then happy I that loue and am beloued
Where I may not remoue, nor be remoued,
LORD of my loue, to whome in vaffalage
Thy merrit hath my dutie strongly knit ;
To thee I fend this written ambassage
To witneffe duty, not to fhew my wit.
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