As on the finger of a throned queene,
The baseft iewell wil be well esteem'd:
So are those errors that in thee are seene,
To truths tranflated, and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the fterne wolfe betray,
If like a lambe he could his lookes tranflate.
How many gazers mighst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst vse the strength of all thy ftate?
But doe not fo, I loue thee in fuch fort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
HOW like a winter hath my abfence beene
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare?
What freezings haue I felt, what darke daies feene?
What old Decembers barenesse euery where ?
And yet this time remou'd was fommers time,
The teeming autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their lords decease:
Yet this aboundant iffue feem'd to me,
But hope of orphans, and vn-fathered fruite,
For fommer and his pleasures waité on thee,
Or if they fing, tis with fo dull a cheere,
That leaues looke pale, dreading the winters neere.
FROM you haue I beene abfent in the spring,
When proud pide Aprill (dreft in all his trim)
Hath put a spirit of youth in euery thing:
That heauie Saturne laught and leapt with him.
Yet nor the laies of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hew,
Could make me any fummers ftory tell:
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew
Nor did I wonder at the lillies white,
Nor praise the deepe vermillion in the rose,
They weare but fweet, but figures of delight :
Drawne after you, you patterne of all those.
Yet feem'd it winter ftill, and you away,
As with your shaddow I with these did play.
HE forward violet thus did I chide,
Sweet theefe whence didft thou ficale thy fweet that
fmels
If not from my loues breath, the purple pride,
Which on thy foft cheeke for complexion dwells?
In my loues veines thou haft too grofely died,
The lillie I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marierom had stolne thy haire,
The roses fearefully on thornes did stand,
Our blushing fhame, an other white difpaire:
A third nor red, nor white, had ftolne of both,
And to his robbry had annext thy breath,
But for his theft in pride of all his growth
A vengfull canker eate him vp to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could fee,
But fweet, or culler it had ftolne from thee.
WHERE art thou mufe that thou forgetft fo long,
To fpeake of that which giues thee all thy might?
Spendst thou thy furie on fome worthlesse fonge,
Darkning thy powre to lend base fubiects light.
Returne forgetfull mufe, and straight redeeme,
In gentle numbers time fo idely spent,
Sing to the eare that doth thy laies efteeme,
And giues thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise resty muse, my loues fweet face furuay
If time haue any wrincle,grauen there,
If any, be a fatire to decay,
And make times fpoiles difpifed euery whe
Giue my loue fame fafter then time wafts life,
So thou prettenft his fieth, and crooked knife.
OH truant mufe what hal be thy amenda
di’d?
For thy neglect of truth in beauty di'd?si
Both truth and beauty on my loue depends:
So doft thou too, and therein dignifi'd:
Make answere mufe, wilt thou not haply faie,
Truth needs no collour with his collour fixt,
Beautie no penfell, beauties truth to lay:
But beft is beft, if neuer intermixt.
Because he needs no praife, wilt thou be dumb?
Excufe not filence fo, fort lies in thee,
To make him much out-liue a gilded tombe:
And to be praifd of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office mufe, I teach thee how,
To make him feeme long hence, as he fhowes now.
MY loue is ftrengthned though more weake in feeming
I loue not leffe, thogh leffe the fhow appeare,
That loue is marchandiz'd, whofe ritch efteeming,
The owner's tongue doth publifli euery where.
Our loue was new, and then but in the fpring,
When I was wont to greet it with my laies,
As Philomell in fummers front doth finge,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper daies:
Not that the fummer is leffe pleafant now
Then when her mournefull himns did hush the night,
But that wild mufick burthens euery bow,
And fweets growne common loofe their deare delight.
Therefore like her, I fome-time hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my fonge.
ALACK what pouerty my mufe brings forth,
That hauing such a skope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Then when it hath my added praife befide.
Oh blame me not if I no more can write !
Looke in your glaffe and there appeares a face,
That ouer-goes my blunt inuention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me difgrace.
Were it not finfull then ftriuing to mend,
To marre the fubiect that before was well,
For to no other paffe my verses tend,
Then of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more then in my verfe can fit,
Your owne glasse showes you, when you looke in it.
To me faire friend you neuer can be old,
O
For as you were when firft your eye I eyde,
Such feemes your beautie ftill three winters colde,
Haue from the forrests shooke three fummers pride,
Three beautious fprings to yellow autumne turn'd,
In proceffe of the seasons haue I feene,
Three Aprill perfumes in three hot Iunes burn'd,
Since first I faw you fresh which yet are greene.
Ah yet doth beauty like a dyall hand,
Steale from his figure, and no pace perceiu'd,
So your fweete hew, which me thinkes ftill doth ftand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceaued.
For feare of which, heare this thou age vnbred,
Ere you were borne was beauties fummer dead.
LET not my loue be cal'd idolatrie,
Nor my beloued as an idoll fhow,
Since all alike my fongs and praises be
To one, of one, ftill fuch, and euer fo.
Kinde is my loue to day, to morrow kinde,
Still conftant in a wondrous excellence,
Therefore my verse to conftancie confin'de,
One thing expreffing, leaues out difference.
Faire, kinde, and true, is all my argument,
Faire, kinde, and true, varrying to other words,
And in this change is my inuention spent,
Three theams in one, which wondrous fcope affords.
Faire, kinde, and true, haue often liu'd alone.
Which three till now, neuer kept feate in one.
HEN in the chronicle of wafted time,
I fee difcriptions of the faireft wights,
And beautie making beautifull old rime,
In praise of ladies dead, and louely knights.
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