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My faucy bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your fhalloweft help will hold me up a-float,
Whilft he upon your foundlefs deep doth ride;
Or (being wreck'd) I am a worthlefs boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.

Or fhall I live your epitaph to make?
Or you furvive, when I in earth am rotten?
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Altho' in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life fhall have,
Tho' I (once gone) to all the world muft die;
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you intombed in mens eyes shall lie :
Your monument fhall be my gentle verfe,.
Which eyes not yet created fhall o'er-read;
And tongues to be, your being fhall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You ftill fhall live (fuch virtue hath my pen)
Where breath most breathes, ev'n in the mouths of


The Picture of True Love.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempefts, and is never fhaken :
It is the ftar to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken.

Love's not time's fool, tho' rofy lips and cheeks
Within his bending fickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom,
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved,

In Praise of his Love.

I grant thou wert not marry'd to my muse,
And therefore may'st without attaint o'er-look
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair fubject, bleffing every book:
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue;
Finding thy worth a limit paft my praise;
And therefore art inforc'd to feek a-new
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days:
And do fo love, yet when they have devis'd
What ftrained touches rhetorick can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly fympathiz'd,
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
And their grofs painting might be better us'd,
Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abus'd.

I never faw that you did painting need,
And therefore to you 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 flept 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 doth grow. This filence of my fin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;

For I impair not beauty, being mute,

When others wou'd give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Than both your poets can in praise devise.

Who is it, that fays moft, which can fay more
Than this rich praife, that you alone are you?
In whofe confine immured is the ftore,

Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his fubject lends not some small glory :
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, fo dignifies his ftory.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worfe what nature made fo clear;
And fuch a counterpart fhall fame his writ,
Making him ftill admir'd every where.

You to your beauteous bleffing add a curse, Being fond of praife, which makes your praises worfe.

My tongue ty'd mufe in manners holds her ftill,
While comments of your praife, richly compil'd,
Referve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrafe by all the mufes fill'd.
I think good thoughts, whilft others write good words,
And, like unletter'd clerk, ftill cry Amen
To every hymn that able fpirit affords,
In polifh'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I fay 'tis fo, 'tis true,
And to the moft of praife add fomething more;
But that is in my thought, whofe love to you
(Tho' words come hindmoft) holds his ranks before:
Then others, for the breath of words, refpect;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

A Refignation.

Was it the proud full fail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of (all-too-precious) you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain rehearfe,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew
Was it his fpirit, by fpirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that ftruck me dead?
No, neither he nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verfe aftonished.
He nor that affable familiar ghoft,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my filence cannot boast;
I was not fick of any fear from thence.

But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter, that infeebled mine.

Farewel, thou art too dear for my poffeffing,
And, like enough, thou know'ft thy eftimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releafing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee, but by thy granting,
And for that riches, where is my deferving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And fo my patent back again is fwerving.
Thyfelf thou gav'ft, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'ft it, else mistaking:
So thy great gift upon mifprifion growing,

Comes home again, on better judgment making..
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,

In sleep a king, but waking, no fuch matter.

Sympathizing Love.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,


Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beafts did leap, and birds did fing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring :
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone;
She (poor bird!) as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breaft up-till a thorn,
And there fung the dolefull'ft ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
Fie, fie, fie, now would fhe cry;
Tereu, Tereu, by and by;

That to hear her fo complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain:
For her griefs fo lovely fhown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'ft in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senfelefs trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthlefs bears, they will not chear thee;
King Pandion he is dead;

All thy friends are lap'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do fing,
Careless of thy forrowing:
Whilft as fickle fortune fmil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd ;
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in mifery.

Words are easy, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find:
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilft thou haft wherewith to spend :
But if ftore of crowns be fcant,
No man will fupply thy want.

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