Was it his fpirit, by fpirits taught to write,
Aboue a mortall pitch, that ftruck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compiers by night
Giuing him ayde, my verse astonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my filence cannot boast,
I was not fick of any feare from thence.
But when your countinance fild vp his line,
Then lackt I matter, that infeebied mine.
Farewell thou art too deare for my poffeffing,
And like enough thou knowst thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth giues thee releafing:
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that ritches where is my deferuing?
The cause of this faire guift in me is wanting,
And fo my pattent back againe is fweruing.
Thy felfe thou gau'ft, thy owne worth then not knowing,
Or mee to whom thou gau'ft it, else mistaking,.
So thy great guift vpon mifprifion growing,
Comes home againe, on better iudgement making.
Thus haue I had thee as a dreame doth flatter,
In fleepe a king, but waking no fuch matter.
WHEN thou shalt be difpofde to fet me light,
And place my merrit in the eie of skorne,
Vpon thy fide, against my felfe Ile fight,
And proue thee virtuous, though thou art forfworne:
With mine owne weakeneffe being best acquainted,
Vpon thy part I can fet downe a story
Of faults conceald, wherein I am attainted:
That thou in loofing me fhall win much glory.
And I by this wil be a gainer too,
For bending all my louing thoughts on thee,
The iniuries that to my felfe I doe,
Doing thee vantage, duble vantage me.
Such is my loue, to thee I fo belong,
That for thy right, my felfe will beare all wrong.
AY that thou didst forfake mee for fome falt,
And I will comment vpon that offence,
Speake of my lameneffe, and I ftraight will halt:
Against thy reafons making no defence.
Thou canst not (loue) disgrace me halfe so ill,
To fet a forme vpon defired change,
As Ile my felfe disgrace, knowing thy wil,
I will acquaintance ftrangle and looke strange:
Be abfent from thy walkes and in my tongue,
Thy fweet beloued name no more shall dwell,
Leaft I (too much prophane) should do it wronge :
And haplie of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my felfe Ile vow debate,
For I must nere loue him whom thou doft hate.
HEN hate me when thou wilt, if euer, now,
Now while the world is bent my deeds to croffe,
loyne with the spight of fortune, make me bow, And doe not drop in for an after loffe:
Ah doe not, when my heart hath fcapte this forrow,
Come in the rereward of a conquerd woe,
Giue not a windy night a rainie morrow,
To linger out a purpofd ouer-throw.
If thou wilt leaue me, do not leaue me last,
When other pettie griefes haue done their spight,
But in the onset come, fo fhall I taste
At first the very worst of fortunes might.
And other straines of woe, which now feeme woe,
Compar'd with loffe of thee, will not seeme fo.
O ME glory in their birth, fome in their skill,
Some in their wealth, fome in their bodies force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill:
Some in their hawkes and hounds, fome in their horse.
And euery humor hath his adiunct pleasure,
Wherein it findes a ioy aboue the rest,
But these perticulers are not my measure,
All these I better in one generall best.
Thy loue is bitter then high birth to me,
Richer then wealth, prouder then garments cost,
Of more delight then hawkes or horfes bee:
And hauing thee, of all mens pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou maift take,
All this away, and me most wretched make.
BVT doe thy worst to steale thy felfe away,
For tearme of life thou art affured mine, And life no longer then thy loue will stay, For it depends vpon that loue of thine.
Then need I not to feare the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I fee, a better state to me belongs
Then that, which on thy humor doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant minde,
Since that my life on thy reuolt doth lie,
Oh what a happy title do I finde,
Happy to haue thy loue, happy to die!
But whats fo blessed faire that feares no blot,
Thou maist be falce, and yet I know it not.
O fhall I liue, fuppofing thou art true,
Like a deceiued husband, fo loues face,
May ftill feeme loue to me, though alter'd new:
Thy lookes with me, thy heart in other place.
For their can liue no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In manies lookes, the falce hearts history
Is writ in moods and frounes and wrinckles ftrange.
But heauen in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face fweet loue fhould euer dwell,
What ere thy thoughts, or thy hearts workings be,
Thy lookes should nothing thence, but fweetneffe tell.
How like Eaues apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy fweet vertue answere not thy show.
THEY that haue powre to hurt, and will doe none,
That doe not do the thing, they most do fhowe,
Who mouing others, are themfelues as stone,
Vnmooued, could, and to temptation flow:
They rightly do inherrit heauens graces,
And husband natures ritches from expence,
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence :
The fommers flowre is to the fommer fweet,
Though to it felfe, it onely liue and die,
But if that flowre with base infection meete,
The baseft weed out-braues his dignity:
For fweeteft things turne fowreft by their deedes,
Lillies that fefter, fmell far worse then weeds.
HOW fweet and louely doft thou make the shame,
Which like a canker in the fragrant rofe,
Doth fpot the beautie of thy budding name?
Oh in what sweets doest thou thy finnes inclofe!
That tongue that tells the story of thy daies,
(Making lafciuious comments on thy fport)
Cannot difpraise, but in a kinde of praise,
Naming thy name, bleffes an ill report.
Oh what a mansion haue thofe vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauties vaile doth couer euery blot,
And all things turnes to faire, that eies can fee!
Take heed (deare heart) of this large priuiledge,
The hardest knife ill vs'd doth loose his edge.
OME fay thy fault is youth, fome wantoneffe, Some fay thy grace is youth and gentle fport, Both grace and faults are lou'd of more and leffe: Thou makst faults graces, that to thee refort:
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