Why write I still all one, euer the fame,
And keepe inuention in a noted weed,
That euery word doth almoft fel my name,
Shewing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know sweet loue I alwaies write of you,
And you and loue are still my argument:
So all my best is dreffing old words new,
Spending againe what is already spent:
For as the fun is daily new and old,
So is my loue ftill telling what is told,
HY glaffe will fhew thee how thy beauties were,
Thy dyall how thy pretious mynuits waste,
The vacant leaues thy mindes imprint will beare,
And of this booke, this learning maift thou taste.
The wrinckles which thy glaffe will truly show,
Of mouthed graues will giue thee memorie,
Thou by thy dyals fhady stealth maist know,
Times theeuifh progreffe to eternitie.
Looke what thy memorie cannot containe,
Commit to these waste blacks, and thou fhalt finde
Those children nurft, deliuerd from thy braine,
To take a new acquaintance of thy minde.
Thefe offices, fo oft as thou wilt looke,
Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy booke.
O oft haue I inuok'd thee for my muse,
And found fuch faire affiftance in my verse,
As euery alien pen hath got my vse,
And vnder thee their poefie disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumbe on high to fing,
And heauie ignorance aloft to flie,
Haue added fethers to the learneds wing,
And giuen grace a double maieftie.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and borne of thee,
In others workes thou dooft but mend the ftile,
And arts with thy fweete graces graced be.
But thou art all my art, and dooft aduance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance,
WHILST I alone did call vpon thy ayde,
My verfe alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decayde,
And my fick mufe doth giue an other place.
I grant (fweet loue) thy louely argument
Deferues the trauaile of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth inuent,
He robs thee of, and payes it thee againe,
He lends thee vertue, and he ftole that word,
From thy behauiour, beautie doth he giue,
And found it in thy cheeke: he can affoord
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth liue.
Then thanke him not for that which he doth fay,
Since what he owes thee, thou thy felfe dooft pay,
H how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth vse your name,
And in the praise thereof fpends all his might,
To make me toung-tide fpeaking of your fame.
But fince your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudeft faile doth beare,
My fawfie barke (inferior farre to his)
On your broad maine doth wilfully appeare.
Your shallowest helpe will hold me vp a floate,
Whilst he vpon your foundleffe deepe doth ride,
Or (being wrackt) I am a worthlesse bote,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
Then if he thriue and I be caft away,
The worst was this, my loue was my decay.
RI fhall liue your epitaph to make,
Or you furuiue when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortall life shall haue,
Though I (once gone) to all the world muft dye,
The earth can yeeld me but a common graue,
When you intombed in mens eyes shall lye,
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created fhall ore-read,
And toungs to be, your beeing fhall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead,
You ftill fhall liue (fuch vertue hath my pen)
Where breath most breaths, euen in the mouths of men.
Grant thou wert not married to my mufe,
And therefore maieft without attaint ore-looke
The dedicated words which writers vse
Of their faire fubiect, bleffing euery booke.
Thou art as faire in knowledge as in hew,
Finding thy worth a limmit past my praise,
And therefore art inforc'd to feeke anew,
Some fresher stampe of the time bettering dayes.
And do fo loue, yet when they haue deuifde,
What ftrained touches rhethorick can lend,
Thou truly faire, wert truly fimpathizde,
In true plaine words, by thy true telling friend.
And their groffe painting might be better vs'd,
Where cheekes need blood, in thee it is abuf'd.
Neuer faw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your faire no painting fet,
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed,
The barren tender of a poets debt;
And therefore haue I flept in your report,
That you your felfe being extant well might fhow,
How farre a moderne quill doth come to short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow,
This filence for my finne you did impute,
Which fhall be moft my glory being dombe,
For I impaire not beautie being mute,
When others would giue life, and bring a tombe.
There liues more life in one of your faire eyes,
Then both your poets can in praise deuife.
HO is it that fayes moft, which can fay more, Then this rich praise, that you alone, are you, In whofe confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equall grew,
Leane penurie within that pen doth dwell,
That to his fubiect lends not fome fsmall glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
That you are you, fo dignifies his story.
Let him but coppy what in you is writ,
Not making worfe what nature made fo cleere,
And fuch a counter-part fhall fame his wit,
Making his ftile admired euery where.
You to your beautious blessings adde a curse,
Being fond on praife, which makes your praises worse.
MY toung-tide mufe in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil'd,
Referue their character with goulden quill,
And precious phrase by all the mufes fil'd.
I thinke good thoughts, whilst other write good wordes,
And like vnlettered clarke still crie amen,
To euery himne that able spirit affords,
In pollifht forme of well refined pen.
Hearing you praifd, I fay 'tis fo, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise adde fome-thing more,
But that is in my thought, whose loue to you
(Though words come hind-moft) holds his ranke before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dombe thoughts, fpeaking in effect.
WAS it the proud full faile of his great verfe,
Bound for the prize of (all to precious) you
That did my ripe thoughts in my braine inhearce,
Making their tombe the wombe wherein they grew?
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