CI. That you were once unkind, befriends me now, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. As I by yours, you have pass'd a hell of time : 1 To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory, Beyond all date, even to eternity : Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. To trust those tables that receive thee more: Were to import forgetfulness in me. 1 'Remember'd:' reminded.-2 The table-book given to him by his friend. CIII. No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change : And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wondering at the present nor the past; For thy records and what we see do lie, Made more or less with thy continual haste: This I do vow, and this shall ever be, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee: If my CIV. dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. No, it was builded far from accident; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thrallèd discontent, Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls : It fears not policy, that heretic, Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. CV. Were it aught to me I bore the canopy, Which prove more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, For compound sweet foregoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? No;-let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul, When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control. 95 PART FOURTH. CVI. So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse; Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse; Making a couplement of proud compare, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in his huge rondure 1 hems. Oh let me, true in love, but truly write, |