If nature (foueraine misteres ouer wrack)
As thou goeft on wards ftill will plucke thee backe,
She keepes thee to this purpose, that her skill.
May time difgrace, and wretched mynuit kill.
Yet feare her O thou minnion of her pleasure,
She may detaine, but not still keepe her trefure!
Her audite (though delayd) anfwer'd muft be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
IN the ould age blacke was not counted faire,
Or if it weare it bore not beauties name:
But now is blacke beauties fucceffiue heire,
And beautie flanderd with a baftard fhame,
For fince each hand hath put on natures power,
Fairing the foule with arts faulfe borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name no holy boure,
But is prophan'd, if not liues in difgrace.
Therefore my mifterffe eyes are rauen blacke,
Her eyes fo futed, and they mourners feeme,
At fuch who not borne faire no beauty lack,.
Slandring creation with a false esteeme,
Yet fo they mourne becomming of their woe,
That euery toung faies beauty fhould looke fo.
OW oft when thou my mufike mufike playst,
Vpon that bleffed wood whofe motion founds. With thy fweet fingers when thou gently swayst
The wiry concord that mine eare confounds,
Do I enuie those iackes that nimble leape,
To kiffe the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilft my poore lips which should that harueft reape,
At the woods bouldnes by thee blushing stand.
To be so tikled they would change their state,
And fituation with those dancing chips,
Ore whome their fingers walke with gentle gate,
Making dead wood more bleft then liuing lips,
Since faufie iackes fo happy are in this,
Giue them their fingers, me thy lips to kiffe.
TH' expence of spirit in a waste of shame
Is luft in action, and till action, lust,
Is periurd, murdrous, blouddy full of blame,
Sauage, extreame, rude, cruell, not to truft,
Inioyd no fooner but difpifed straight,
Paft reafon hunted, and no fooner had
Past reafon hated as a fwollowed bayt.
On purpose layd to make the taker mad.
Made in purfut and in possession so,
Had, hauing, and in queft, to haue extreame,
A bliffe in proofe and proud and very wo,
Before a ioy propofd behind a dreame,
All this the world well knowes yet none knowes well,
To fhun the heauen that leads men to this hell.
Y miftres eyes are nothing like the funne, Currall is farre more red, then her lips red, If fnow be white, why then her brefts are dun: If haires be wiers, black wiers grow on her head:
I haue feene roses damafkt, red and white,
But no fuch rofes fee I in her checkes,
And in fome perfumes is there more delight,
Then in the breath that from my mistres reekes,
I loue to heare her fpeake, yet well I know,
That muficke hath a farre more pleafing found;
I graunt I neuer faw a goddesse goe,
My mistres when thee walkes treads on the ground.
And yet by heauen I thinke my loue as rare,
As any he beli'd with falfe compare.
HOU art as tirannous, fo as thou art, s
As thofe whofe beauties proudly make them cruell
For well thou know'ft to my deare doting hart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewell....
Yet in good faith fome fay that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make loue grone;
To fay they erre, I dare not be fo bold, er!
Although I fweare it to my felfe alone,am of bert
And to be fure that is not falfe I fweare i bna
A thoufand grones but thinking on thy facebo
One on anothers necke do witneffe beare.c
Thy blacke is fairest in my iudgements place.
In nothing art thou blacke faue in thy deeds,
And thence this launder as I thinke proceeds.
THINE eies I loue, and they as pittying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with difdaine,
Haue put on black, and louing mourners bee,
Looking with pretty ruth vpon my paine.
And truly not the morning fun of heauen
Better becomes the gray cheeks of th’east,
Nor that full starre that vfhers in the eauen
Doth halfe that glory to the fober west
As those two morning eyes become thy face :
O let it then as well befeeme thy heart
To mourne for me fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fute thy pitty like in euery part.
Then will I fweare beauty her felfe is blacke,
And all they foule that thy complexion lacke.
BESHREW that heart that makes my heart to groane
For that deepe wound it giues my friend and me;
I'ft not ynough to torture me alone,
But flaue to flauery my fweet'ft friend muft be.
Me from my felfe thy cruell eye hath taken,
And my next felfe thou harder haft ingrossed,
Of him, my felfe, and thee I am forfaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed:
Poifon my heart in thy fteele bofomes warde,
But then my friends heart let my poore heart bale,
Who ere keepes me, let my heart be his garde,
Thou canst not then vfe rigor in my iaile.
And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine and all that is in me.
O now I haue confeft that he is thine, And I my felfe am morgag'd to thy will, My felfe Ile forfeit, fo that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: VOL. IV.
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art couetous, and he is kinde,
He learnd but furetie-like to write for me,
Vnder that bond that him as fast doth binde.
The ftatute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou vfurer that put'st forth all to vse,
And fue a friend, came debter for my fake,
So him I loose through my vnkinde abuse.
Him haue I loft, thou haft both him and me,
He paies the whole, and yet am I not free.
WHO ener hath her with, thou haft thy Will,
And Will too boote, and Will in ouer-plus,
More then enough am I that vexe thee still,
To thy fweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou whose will is large and fpatious,
Not once vouchfafe to hide my will in thine,
Shall will in others feeme right gracious,
And in my will no faire acceptance shine :
The fea all water, yet receiues raine still,
And in aboundance addeth to his store,
So thou beeing rich in Will adde to thy Will,
One will of mine to make thy large Will more.
Let no vnkinde, no faire befeechers kill,
Thinke all but one, and me in that one Will.
fo
F thy foule check thee that I come neere,
Sweare to thy blind foule that I was thy Will,
And will thy foule knowes is admitted there.
Thus farre for loue, my loue-fute fweet fullfill.
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