51
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:From where thou art why should I haste methence?Till I return, of posting is no need.O! what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know:Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,— 'Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run and give him leave to go.'
52
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carconet.So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special blest By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph; being lack'd, to hope.
53
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new:Speak of the spring and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear;And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
54
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds dis- closes;But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.

55
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outhve this powerful rime;But you shall shine more bright in these con- tents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttishtime.When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shallburnThe living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still findroomEven in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
56
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contractednewCome 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.
57
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 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 nought, Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
58
That god forbid that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of plea- sure,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 eachcheck,Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To 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.
59
If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden 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 couldsay To this composed wonder of your frame;Whe'r 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.
60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbledshore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes be- fore,In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main 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 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 shallstand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be bro- ken, While shadows, like to thee, do mock mysight?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 else- where, From me far off, with others all too near.
62
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, 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