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Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more bless'd may be the view:
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd,

more rare.

LVII.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require :

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,1
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you;
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,

When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose;
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught,
Save, where you are, how happy you make those :
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure;

i. e. the tedious hour that seems as if it never would end.

Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list; your charter is so strong,
That you yourself may privilege your time:
Do what you will, to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that, which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which, laboring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child?
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.

O! sure I am, the wits of former days

To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX.

Like as 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 main1 of light,

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 florish 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.

LXI.

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

In the great body.

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 else. where,

From me far off, with others all-too-near.

LXII.

1

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 1 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,
Beated and chopp'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.

LXIII.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn

1 Beautiful.

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

brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn 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.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
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.

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