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Poems on several Occafions.

The Glory of Beauty.

Ah wherefore with infection fhould he live?
And with his prefence grace impiety?
That fin by him advantage fhould atchieve,
And lace itself with his fociety?

Why should falfe painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead feeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly feek
Rofes of fhadow, fince his rofe is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood, to blufh thro' lively veins?
For the hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O him she stores, to fhow what wealth fhe had,
In days long fince, before these last so bad.

Thus is his cheek, the map of days, out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and dy'd as flowers do now;
Before these bastard figns of fair were born,
Or durft inhabit on a living brow:
Before the golden treffes of the dead,
The right of fepulchers, were fhorn away,
To live a fecond life on fecond head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay.
In him thofe holy antique hours are feen,
Without all ornament itself, and true,
Making no fummer of another's green,
Robbing no old, to drefs his beauty new:

And him as for a map doth nature store,
To fhow falfe art what beauty was of


Those parts of thee, that the world's eye doth view,
Want nothing, that the thought of hearts can mend :
All tongues (the voice of fouls) give thee thy due,
Uttering bare truth, even fo as foes commend.
Their outward thus with outward praise is crown'd,
But those fame tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By feeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guefs they measure by thy deeds;
Then their churl thoughts (altho' their eyes were kind)
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds.
But why? thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The toil is this, that thou doft common grow.

Injurious Time.

Like as the waves make towards the pibbled shore,
So do our minutes haften to their end:

Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipfes 'gainft his glory fight,

And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish fet on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his fcythe to mow.
And yet to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praifing thy worth, defpite his cruel hand.

Against my love fhall be as I am now,

With time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travel'd on to age's fteepy night,

And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing, or vanish'd out of fight,
Stealing away the treasure of his fpring:
For fuch a time, do I now fortify,
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My fweet love's beauty, tho' my lover's life.
His beauty fhall in thefe black lines be feen,
And they fhall live, and he in them still green,

When I have feen, by time's fell hand defac'd,
The rich proud coft of out-worn bury'd age;
When sometimes lofty towers I fee down raz'd,
And brafs eternal flave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm foil win of the watry main,
Increafing ftore with lofs, and lofs with ftore;
When I have feen fuch interchange of state,
Or ftate 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 chufe
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Since brafs, nor ftone, nor earth, nor boundlefs fea,
But fad mortality o'er-fways their power:
How with this rage fhall beauty hold a plea,
Whofe action is no ftronger than a flower?

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O! how fhall fummer's hungry breath hold out
Against the wrackful fiege of battering days;
When rocks impregnable are not fo ftout,
Nor gates of fteel fo ftrong, but time decays?
O! fearful meditation! where, alack!

Shall time's beft jewel from time's cheft lie hid ?
Or what ftrong hand can hold this swift foot back,
Or who his spoil on beauty can forbid?

O! none! unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Fir'd with all thefe, for reftful death I cry;
As to behold defert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And pureft faith unhappily forfworn,
And gilded honour fhamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely ftrumpetted,
And right perfection wrongfully difgrac'd,
And ftrength by limping fway difabled,
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controuling fkill,
And fimple truth mifcall'd fimplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:

Tir'd with all thefe, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

True Admiration.

What is your fubftance, whereof are you made,
That millions of ftrange fhadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one fhade,
And you but one, can every fhadow lend?
Defcribe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;

On Helen's cheek all art of beauty fet,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the fpring and foyzen of the
The one doth fhadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every bleffed fhape we know:

In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for conftant heart.

O! how much more doth beauty beauteous feem,
By that fweet 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 rofes,
Hang on fuch thorns, and play as wantonly,
When fummer's breath their masked buds difclofes:
But for their virtue's only in their show,
They live unmov'd, and unrefpected fade,
Die to themselves: fweet roses do not fo,
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
And fo of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, by verfe diftils your truth.

The Force of Love.

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

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilft I (my fovereign) watch the clock for you;
Nor think the bitterness of abfence four,

When you have bid your fervant once adieu.


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