LXIV.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?

And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

Against that time, if ever that time come,

When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum,

Call'd to that audit by advised respects;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,

And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,

To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since, why to love, I can allege no cause.

LXVI.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,

And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn,
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story

Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;

That thou, in losing me, shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too ;

For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do,

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXVII.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desirèd change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,

I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue.
Thy sweet-belovèd name no more shall dwell;
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,

And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,

For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate

LXVIII.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

And do not drop in for an after-loss :

Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come; so shall I taste

At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

LXIX.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

Some in their wealth, some in their body's force;

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;

But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,

Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take All this away, and me most wretched make.

4

LXX.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assurèd mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
Oh what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not :

LXXI.

So shall I live supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

In many's looks the false heart's history

Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange; But Heaven in thy creation did decree,

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,

1

And lace 1 itself with his society?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,

And steal dead seeming of the living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

Oh, him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXXIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were borne,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,

The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,

Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
1 'Lace:' embellish.