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Hot was the day, fhe hotter, that did look
For his approach, that often here had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim :
The fun look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not fo whiftly, as this queen on him:

He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
O! Fove! (quoth fhe) why was not I a flood?

The Unconftant Lover.

Fair is my love, but not fo fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trufty;
Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rufty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her;
None fairer, nor none falfer to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kifs her oaths of true love fwearing?
How many tales to pleafe me hath fhe coined,
Dreading my love, the lofs thereof still fearing?
Yet in the midst of all her pure proteftings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were

She burnt with love, as ftraw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as foon as ftraw out burning;
She fram'd the love, and yet fhe foil'd the framing;
She bad love laft, and yet fhe fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad at the beft, tho' excellent in neither.


The Benefit of Friendship.

When to the feflions of fweet filent thought,
I fummon up remembrance of things past,
I figh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's wafte.
Then can I drown an eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's datelefs night,
And weep afresh love's long fince cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expence of many a vanish'd fight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All loffes are reftor'd, and forrows end.

Thy bofom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have fuppofed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obfequious tear
Hath dear religious love ftol'n from mine eye,
As intereft of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone;
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) haft all the all of me.

If thou furvive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with duft shall

And fhalt by fortune once more re-furvey
These poor rude lines of thy deceafed lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And tho' they be out-stript by every pen,
Referve them for my love, not for their rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier men,

Oh then vouchfafe me but this loving thought!
Had my friend's mufe grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this, his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:

But fince he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their ftile I'll read, his for his love.

Friendly Concord.

If mufick and fweet poetry agree,

As they must needs (the fifter and the brother)
Then muft the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'ft the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whofe heavenly touch
Upon the lute, doth ravifh human fenfe:
Spencer to me, whofe deep conceit is fuch,
As paffing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'ft to hear the fweet melodious found,
That Phoebus' lute (the queen of mufick) makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to finging he betakes.

One God is God of both (as poets fain)
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain,


Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love, Paler for forrow than her milk-white dove,

For Adon's fake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds,
She, filly queen, with more than love's good-will,
Forbad the boy he fhould not pafs thofe grounds:
Once (quoth the) did I fee a fair fweet youth
Here in these brakes, deep wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh a fpectacle of ruth ;

See in my thigh (quoth fhe) here was the fore:
She fhewed hers, he faw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

A Congratulation.

How can my mufe want fubject to invent,
While thou doft breathe, that pour'ft into my verfe
Thine own sweet
argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ?

Oh! give thyself the thanks, if ought in me,
Worthy perufal, ftand against thy fight;
For who's fo dull, that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyfelf doft give invention light?
Be thou the tenth mufe, ten times more in worth,
Than thofe old Nine which rhimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to out-live long date.

If my flight mufe do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine fhall be the praise.

Oh! how thy worth with manners may I fing,
When thou art all the better part of me ?
What can mine own praise to mine own felf bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,

And our dear love lofe name of single one;

That by this feparation I may give

That due to thee, which thou deferv'ft alone.
Oh abfence! what a torment would'ft thou prove,
Were't not that thy four leisure gave fweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Who time and thoughts fo sweetly dost deceive;
And that thou teacheft how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What haft thou then more than thou hadft before?
No love, my love, that thou may'ft true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadft this more.
Then if for my love, thou my love receiveft,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou useft;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thyfelf deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyfelf refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Altho' thou fteal thee all my poverty:
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lafcivious grace, in whom all ill well fhows,
Kill me with fpite, yet we must not be foes.

Lofs and Gain.

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am fometimes abfent from thy heart, .
Thy beauty and thy years full well befit,
For ftill temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won;
Beauteous thou art, and therefore to be affailed,
And when a woman woos, what woman's fon
Will fourly leave her till he have prevailed?

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