That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we're mended, or where better they,"
Or whether revolution be the same.

O! sure I am, the wits of former days

To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

Like us the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

30

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight;

And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eye-lids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?

* This Sonnet is classed by Knight as the sixth, in the series on 'Absence," beginning with the L.

29 That is, wherein or in what respects they were better.
80 The great body of light, or, perhaps, the ocean of light.

H.

H.

Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenour of thy jealousy?

O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:

For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks, no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.

But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Bated and chapp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.

'Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,

W th time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;

* This and the twelve following Sonnets are placed by Knight in a continuous series of sixteen, beginning with the CXXVI., including, next, the XXII., and ending with the LXXXI

When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his

brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful moru
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;

And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify

Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life :
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen;
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd,
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ;-
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay,

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, -
That time will come, and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'erswavs their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O, fearful meditation! where, alack!

Shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none! unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry;—
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

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

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his 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.
O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
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.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

31 The Poet has several allusions to this custom of the time See The Merchant of Venice, Act iii. sc. 2, note 6; and Much Adc about Nothing, Act ii sc. 3, note 4.