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They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,

XCIX. And husband nature's riches from expence;

The forward violet thus did I chide: They are the lords and owners of their faces, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet Others but stewards of their excellence.

that smells, The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Though to itself it only live and die;

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, But if that flower with base infection meet,

love's veins thou hast too grossly died. The basest weed out-braves his dignity; The lily I condemned for thy hand, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, XCV.

One blushing shame, another white despair; How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame and to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ;

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

But for his thest, in pride of all his growth Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

But sweet or colour it had stolen from thée. Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

C. Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise:

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long Naming thy name blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got,

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Which for their habitation chose out thee!

Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,

Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light? And all things turns to fair that eyes can see !

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

In gentle numbers time so idly spent ; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose its edge.

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness; If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
Some say, thy grace is youth and gentle sport; If any, be a satire to decay,
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
As on the fingers of a throned queen

So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. The bas jewel will be well esteem'd ;

CI. So are those errors that in thee are seen,

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends, To truths translated, and for true things deem'd For thy neglect of truth in beauty did ?

Flow many lambs might the stern wolf betray, Both truth and beauty on my love depends ;
If like a lamb he could his looks translate; So dost thou too, and therein dignify'd.
How many gazers might'st thou lead away, Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,

If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd, But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay : As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. But best is best, if never intermix'd ;XCVII.

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? How like a winter hath my absence been

Excuse not silence so; for it lies in thee From thee the pleasure of the fleeting year!

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And to be praised of ages yet to be.
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!

Then do thy office, Muse: I teach thee how
And yet this time removed was summer's time!

To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

seeming; Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

I love not less, though less the show appear: But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;

That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

The owner's tongue doth publish every where. And thou away, the very birds are mute;

Our love was new, and then but in the spring, Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays ; That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. And stops his pipe in growth of riper days:

As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,

Not that the summer is less pleasant now
From you have I been absent in the spring, Than when her mournful hymos did hush the
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,

night, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing; But that wild music burdens every bough, That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap'd with him. And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Therefore, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue, Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Because I would not dull you with my song. Could make me any summer's story tell,

CIII. Or from their proud lap pluck them where they Alack! what poverty my muse brings forth, grew :

That having such a scope to show her pride, Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

The argument, all bare, is of more worth, Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose: Than when it hath my added praise beside. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, o blame me not, if I no more can write!

Drawn after yon, you pattern of all those. Look in your glass, and there appears a face, Yet, seem'd it winter still, and, you away. That over-grows my blunt invention quite, As with your shadow I with these did play: Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, | What's new to speak, what new to register, To mar the subject that before was well? That may express my love, or thy dear merit? For to no other pass my verses tend,

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers diThan of your graces and your gifts to tell:

vine, And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, I must each day say o'er the very same; Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, CIV.

E'en as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love's fresh case
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
For as you were, when first your eye 1 eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cola Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page;
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; Finding the first concert of love there bred,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d, Where time and outward form would show it dead. In process of the seasons have I seen;

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. O never say, that I was false of heart,

Ah! yet doth beanty, like a dial-hand, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; As easy might I from myself depart,
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth As from my soul, which in thy breath doth lie:

That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: Like him that travels, I return again; For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,- Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, – Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead, So that myself bring water for my staip, cy.

Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, Let not my love be call’d Idolatry,

That it could so preposterously be stain'd, Nor my beloved as an idol show,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; Since all alike my songs and praises be,

For nothing this wide universe I call,
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,

Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. And made myself a motley to the view,

Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;

dear, And in this change is my invention spent,

Made old offences of affections new. Three themes in one, which wondrous scope af- Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth fords.

Askance and strangely; but, by all above, Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone, These blenches gave my heart another youth, Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. And worse essays proved thee my best of love. CVI.

Now all is done, save what shall have no end: When in the chronicle of wasted time

Mine appetite I never more will grind I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

On newer proof, to try an older friend, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

A god in love, to whom I am confined. In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,

E’en to thy pare and most most loving breast. Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

CXI. I see their antique pen would have express'd O for my sake do you with fortune chide, Even such a beauty as yon master now.

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, So all their praises are but prophecies

That did not better for my life provide, of this our time, all you prefiguring;

Than public means, which public manners breeds. And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, Thence comes it that my pame receives a brand,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing : And almost thence my nature is subdued
For we, which now behold these present days, To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd;

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection; Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

No bitterness that I will bitter think, Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Nor double penance to correct correction. Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye, The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

E'en that your pity is enough to cure me. And the sad augurs mock their own presage ;

CXII Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

Your love and pity doth the impression fill And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow, Now with the drops of this most balmy time For what care I who calls me well or ill, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, so you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow? Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes, To know my shames and praises from your tongue;

You are my all-the-world, and I must strive And thou in this shalt find thy monument, None else to me, nor I to none alive, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent, That my steeld sense or changes, right or wrong. CVIII.

In so profound abysm I throw all care What's in the brain that ink may character, Of others' voices, that my adder's sense Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense: That I have freqnent been with unknown minds, You are so strongly in my purpose bred, And given to time your own dear purchased right; That all he world besides methinks they are dead. That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight. CXIII.

Book both my wilfuluess and errors down, Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; And on just proof, surmise accumulate, And that which governs me to go about, Bring me within the level of your frown, Doth part his function, and is partly blind, But shoot pot at me in your waken'd hate: Seems seeing, but ellectually is ont:

Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove For it no form delivers to the heart

The constancy and virtue of


love. or bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch;

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;

Like as, to make our appetites more keen, For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,

With eager compounds we our palate urge; The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature,

As, to prevent our maladies unsten, The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

We sicken to shun sickness, when we purge ; The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.

E'en so, being full of your ne'er cloying sweetIncapable of more, replete with you,


To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness CXIV.

To be diseased, ere that there was true needing. Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with Thus policy in love, to auticipate you,

The ills that were not, grew to faults assured Driok


the monarch's plague, this Dattery, And brought to medicine a healthful state, Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured, And that your love taught it this alchymy, But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,

To make of nonsters and things indigest, Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,

CXIX. Creating every bad a perfect best,

What potions have I drunk of Syren tears, As fast as objects to his beams assemble?

Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, .O'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,

Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

Still losing when I saw myself to win! Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeiog.

What wretched errors hath my heart committed, And to his palate doth prepare the cup: Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! If it be poison’d, 'tis the lesser sin

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted, That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

In the distraction of this madding fever!

O benelit of ill! now I find true,
Those lines that I before have writ, do lie, That better is by evil still made better;
E'en those that said, I could not love you dearer; Avd ruiu'd love, when it is built anew,
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. My most full flaine should afterwards burn clearer. So I return rebuked to my content,

But reckoning time whose million'd accidents And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings:

CXX. Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, That you were once unkind, befriends me now, Divert strong minds to the course ofaltering things ;' And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Alas! why, fearing of time's tyranny,

Needs must I under my transgressions bow, Might I not then say, now I love you best, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. When I was certaiv o'er incertainty,

For if you were by my unkindness shaken, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest, As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time Love is a babe: then might I not say so,

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To give full growth to that which still doth grow? To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. CXVI.

O that our night of woe might have remember'd Let me not to the marriage of trne minds

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, Admit impediments. Love is not love,

And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd

The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits ! Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove:

But that your trespass now becomes a fee; O po! it is an ever-fixed mark,

Mine ransoms your's, and your's must ransom me. That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

CXXI.. It is the star to every wandering bark,

'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemid, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be When not to be receives reproach of being, taken.

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Love's notTime's fool, thongh rosylips and cheeks, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. Within his bending sickle's compass come;

For why should others' false adulterate eyes Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

Give salatation to my sportive blood ? But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, If this be error, and upon me proved,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good ? I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

No,- I am that I am; and they that level

At my abuses, leckon up their own;

I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel; Accuse me thus; that I have scanted all

By their rauk thoughts my deeds must not be Wherein I should your great deserts repay;

shown.; Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

Unless this general eril they maintain, Whereto all bouds do tie me day by day; All men are bad and in their badness reign.


She may detain, but not still keep her treasure: Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, Full character'd with lasting memory,

And her quietus is to render thec. Which shall above that idle rank remain,

CXXVII. Beyond all date, even to eternity:

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or at the least so long as brain and heart

Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ;
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And beauty slauder'd with a bastard shame. Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d.

For since each hand hath put on Nature's power, That poor retention could not so much hold,

Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score; Therefore to give them from me was I bold

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy hour, To trust those tables that receive thee more:

But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace,

Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, To keep an adjunet to remember thee,

ller eyes so suited; and they mouruers seem Were to import forgetfulness in me. CXXIII.

At such, who not born fair, no beauty lack, No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change : Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

That every tongue says, beauty should look so. They are but dressings of a former sight.

CXXVIII. Our dates are brier, and therefore we admire How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, What thou dost foist upon us that is old; Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds And rather make them born to our desire, With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st Than think that we before have heard them told. The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap Not wondering at the present nor the past;

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, For thy records and what we see doth lie, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest Made more or less by thy continual haste:

reap, This I do vow, and this shall ever be,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. To be so tickled, they would change their state CXXIV.

And situation with those dancing chips,
If my dear love were but the child of state, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
It might for fortune's bastard be nnfather'd, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers ga- Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in silent pomp, nor falls

The expence of spirit in a waste of shame Uuder the blow of thralled discontent,

Is lust in action; and till action, lust Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, It fears not policy, that heretic,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had,

Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straiglit; But all alone stands hugely politic,

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with

Jaid to make the taker mad: showers.

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; To this I witness call the fools of time,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

A bliss in proof,—and proved, a very woe;
Were it aught to me I bore the canopy,

Before, a joy proposed; behiul, a dream:

All this the world well knows; yet none knows With my extern the outward honouring,

well Or laid great bases for eternity, Which prove more short than waste or raining? To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. Have I not seep dwellers on form and favour

CXXX. Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sup; For componnd sweet foregoing simple savour,

Coral is far more red than her lips red: Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dan; No;- let me be obsequious in thy heart,

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks; But mutual render, only me for thee.

And in some perfumes is there more delight, Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. When most impeach'd, stands least in thy con

I love to hear her speak, -yet well I know troul.

That music hath a far more pleasing sound; CXXVI.

I grant I never saw a goddess go,O thou, my lovely boy! who in thy power

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle hoor;

ground; Who hast by waving groan, and therein show'st

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st;

As auy she belied with false compare. If nature, sovereign mistress over wreck,

CXXXI. As thou goest outwards, still will pull thee back, Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill As those whose beauties proudly made them cruel; May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. For well thou know'st, to my dear doting heart Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure ! Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

On purpose

Yet in good faith, some say, that thee behold, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Thy face hath not the power to make love groan: Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. To say they err, I dare not be so bold,

Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Although I swear it to myself alone.

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. And, to be sure that is not false I swear, In things of great receipt with ease we prove; A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, Among a number one is reckon'd none. One on another's neck, do witness bear

Then in the number let one pass untold, Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. Though in thy stores' account I one must be; In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds, For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: CXXXII.

Make but my name thy love, and love that still, Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

And then thou lovest me, - for my name is Will. Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain;

CXXXVII. Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

eyes, And truly not the morning sun of heaven That they behold, and see not what they see? Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, They know, what beauty is, see where it lies, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. Doth half that glory to the sober west,

If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, As those two mourning eyes become thy face; Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, O let it then as well beseem thy heart

Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ? And suit thy pity like in every part.

Why should my heart think that a several plot, Then will I swear beauty herself is black, Which my heart knows the wide world's common And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

place? CXXXIII.

Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not? Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan To put fair truth upon so foul a face? For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd, Ss't not enough to torture me alone,

And to this false plague are they now transferr'd. But slave to slavery, my sweetest friend must be ?

CXXXVIII. Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, When my love swears that she is made of truth, And my next self thon harder hast engross'd; I do believe her, though I know she lies; of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; That she might think me some untutor’d youth, And torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd. Unlearned in the world's false subtilties.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me yonng, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; Although she knows my days are past the best, Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol; On both sides thus is simple truth supprest. And yet thou wilt; for!, being pent in thee, But wherefore says she not, she is wajust? Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. And wherefore say not I, that I am old? CXXXIV.

O love's best habit is in seeming trust, So now I have confess'd that he is thine,

And age in love loves not to have years told. And I myself am mortgaged to thy will;

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine

And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still ;

But thou wilt not, nor he will not he free, O call not me to justify the wrong,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
He learn'd but, surety-like, to write for me, Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

tongue; The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Use power with power, and slay me not by art! Thou usurer that putt'st forth all to use,

Tell me thou lovest elsewhere ; but in my sight, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake; Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside ?

So him I lose through my unkind abuse. What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me,

might He pays the whole, and yet I am not free. Is more than my o’erpress'd defence can 'bide ? CXXXV.

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows, Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will Her pretty looks have been mine enemies: And will to boot, and will in overplus:

And therefore from my face she turns my foes, More than enough am I that vex thee still,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries. To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Yet do not 60; but since I am near slain, Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

CXL. Shall will in others seem right gracious,

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express And in abundance addeth to his store;

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

One will of mine, to make thy large will more. Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so; Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill:

As testy sick meo, when their deaths be near, Think of all but one, and me in that one will. No news but health from their physicians know :) CXXXVI.

For if I shonld despair, I should grow mad, If tliy soul check thee, that I come so near, And in my madness might speak ill of thee: Swear by thy blind soul that I was thy will, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

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