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Nothing is constant but in constant change, What's done still is undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it range;

Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon: Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

LXXXIII.

Too long I followed have my fond desire,
And too long painted on the ocean streams,
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think,
For only thou canst grant what I do crave:
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet my paper; study, grave:
And till my soul forth of this body fly,
No hope I'll have, but only only thee.

LXXXIV.

To spread the azure canopy of heaven,
And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold,
To place this ponderous globe of earth so even,
That it should all, and nought should it uphold;

With motions strange t' indue the planets seven,
And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold;
To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold,
Of all their jars that sweet accords are given ;-
Lord, to thy wisdom's nought, nought to thy might:
But that thou should'st, thy glory laid aside,
Come basely in mortality to bide,

And die for those deserv'd an endless night;
A wonder is so far above our wit,

That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.

LXXXV.

WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born
In these unhappy times, and dying days
Of this now doting world, when good decays,
Love's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn!
When such are only priz'd by wretched ways
Who with a golden fleece them can adorn!
When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphan-like, forlorn!
Why was not I born in that golden age,

When gold yet was not known? and those black arts
By which base worldlings vilely play their parts,
With horrid acts staining earth's stately stage?

To have been then, O heaven! 't had been my bliss, But bless me now, and take me soon from this.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE COUNTESS OF PERTH.

SONNET LXXXVI.

THE goddess that in Amathus doth reign

With silver trammels, and sapphire-colour'd eyes,
When naked from her mother's crystal plain,
She first appear'd unto the wond'ring skies;
Or when the golden apple to obtain,
Her blushing snow amazed Ida's trees,
Did never look in half so fair a guise,
As she here drawn all other ages stain.

O God, what beauties to inflame the soul,

And hold the hardest hearts in chains of gold!
Fair locks, sweet face, love's stately capitol,

Pure neck, which doth that heavenly frame uphold!
If Virtue would to mortal eyes appear,

To ravish sense, she would your beauty wear.

SONNET LXXXVII.

IF heaven, the stars, and nature did her grace
With all perfections found the moon above,
And what excelleth in this lower place,
Found place in her to breed a world of love:
If angels' gleams shine on her fairest face,

Which makes heaven's joy on earth the gazer prove,
And her bright eyes (the orbs which beauty move)
As Phoebus dazzle in his glorious race;

What pencil paint, what colour to the sight

So sweet a shape can shew? The blushing Morn

The red must lend, the Milky-way the white,
And Night, the stars which her rich crown adorn;
To draw her right then, and make all agree,

The heaven the table, Zeuxis Jove must be.

MADRIGAL LXXXVIII. ~

My thoughts hold mortal strife,

I do detest my life,

And with lamenting cries,

Peace to my soul to bring,

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
But he grim grinning king,

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,

Late having deckt with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

MADRIGALS

AND

EPIGRAMS.

THE STATUE OF MEDUSA.-LXXXIX.

Or that Medusa strange,

Who those that did her see in rocks did change, No image carv'd is this;

Medusa's self it is:

For while at heat of day

To quench her thirst she by this spring did stay, Her hideous head beholding in this glass,

Her senses fail'd, and thus transform'd she was.

THE PORTRAIT OF MARS AND VENUS.-XC.

FAIR Paphos' wanton queen

(Not drawn in white and red)

Is truly here, as when in Vulcan's bed

She was of all heaven's laughing senate seen.

Gaze on her hair, and eine,

Her brows, the bows of Love,

Her back with lilies spread :

Ye also might perceive her turn and move,

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