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But no such roses see I in her cheeks ;
And in some perfumes there is more delight,
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks,
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That music hath a far more pleasing sound :
I grant I never saw a goddess go ;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she, bely'd with false compare. Thou art tyrannous, so thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel : For well thou know'st to my dear doating heart, Thou art the fairest, and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan ; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Altho’I swear it to myself alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear; A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, On one another's neck do witness bare : Thy black is fairer in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning-sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east ;
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face :
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan,
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me ;
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweetest friend must be ?



Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd ;
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken,
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail ;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail.

And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
So now I have confest that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will ;
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to me, my comfort still.
But thou wilt not, nor will he not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind ;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use ;
And sue a friend, came debtor for thy sake,
So him I lose thro' my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me;
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.

LOVE-SUIT. Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus ; More than enough am'I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine ? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? The sea all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store ; So thou being rich in Will add to thy Will One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill,

Think all but one, and me in that one Will. If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will ;

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there ;
Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
I fill it full with wills, and my will one :
In things of great receipt with ease we prove,
Among a number one is reckon'd none.
Then in a number let me pass untold,
Tho' in thy store's account I one must be :
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee.

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov’st me, for my name is Will.


Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see !
They know what beauty is, see where it lies ;
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride ;
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged looks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is ty'd ?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not
To put fair truth upon so foul a face ;

In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,

And to this false plague are they now transferr’d.
O! call me not to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart ;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue ;
Use power with power, and slay me not by art :
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside;
What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might
Is more than my o'er-prest defence can bide ?
Let me excuse thee ; ah ! my love well knows,
Her pretty looks have been my enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injnries.

Yet do not so, but since I am near slain,
Kill me out-right with looks, and rid my pain.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
My tongue-ty'd patience with too much disdain ;
Lést sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Tho' not to love, yet love to tell me so :
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee ;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

That I may not be so, nor thou bely'd,
Bear thine eyes strait, tho' thy proud heart go wide.

A PROTESTATION. In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note ; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone : But my five wits, nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee; Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be :

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

That she that makes me sin, rewards my pain.
Love is my sin, and my dear virtue, hate ;
Hate of sin, grounded on a sinful loving :
O! but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving :
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profan’d their scarlet ornaments,
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb’d others beds' revenues of their repts.
Be it lawful, I love thee, as thou lov'st those,
Whom thine eyes woo, as mine importune thee ;
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pity be,

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example may'st thou be deny'd !


Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away ;
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch,
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay :
Whiist her neglected child holds in her chase,
Cries to catch her, whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face ;
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent.
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind ;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind.

So will I pray, that thou may'st have thy Will,
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

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Those lips that love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the sound that said, I hate,
To me that languish'd for her sake :
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come ;
Chiding that tongue, that, ever sweet,
Was us'd in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet :
I hate, she alter'd with an end
That follow'd it, as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.

I hate, from hate a way she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying, not you.


Poor soul! the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth, these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls in costly clay ?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy faded

mansion spend ?

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