76
Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods and to compoundsstrange?Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did pro- ceed?O! know, sweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument;So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.
77
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look! what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shaltfindThose children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
78
So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high tosingAnd heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance

79
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and be stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he dothsay, Since what he owes thee thou thyself dostpay.
80
O! how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! But since your worth—wide as the ocean is,— The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear.Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this;—my lover was my decay.
81
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you. survive when I in earth am rotten;From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shallhave, Though I, once gone, to all the world mustdie: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead;You still shall live,—such virtue hath mypen,—Where breath most breathes,—even in the mouths of men.
82
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have de-vis'd What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.
83
I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set;I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet's debt:And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you dothgrow.This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise.
84
Who is it that says most? which can say more Than this rich praise,—that you alone are you? In whose confine immured is the store Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory;But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story, Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
85
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, Whilst comments of your praise, richly compiled, Deserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, while others write goodwords,And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry 'Amen' To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you prais'd, I say, ' 'Tis so, 'tis true,' And to the most of praise add something more;But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rankbefore. Then others for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

86
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast;I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
87
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving.Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then notknowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment mak- ing. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flat- ter, In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.
88
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side against myself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art for- sworn.With mine own weakness, being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:And I by this will be a gainer too;For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
89
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence:Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against myself I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
90
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;Now, while the world is bent my deeds tocross,Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss:Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow,Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,When other petty griefs have done their spite,But in the onset come: so shall I tasteAt first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.