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O, therefore, love! be of thyself so weary,
As I, not for myself, but for thee, will,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain;
Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.


SWEET Cytherea, sitting by a brook,

With young ADONIS, lovely, fresh and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;

She show'd him favours to allure his eye;

To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there;
Touches so soft, still conquer chastity.

But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figur'd proffer,

The tender nibler would not touch the bait

But smile and jest at every gentle offer:

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward,

He rose, and ran away. Ah, fool too froward!

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IF love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
Oh! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd;
Tho' to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove.
Those thoughts to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd
Study his bias leaves, and make his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live, that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice:
Well learn'd is that tongue, that well can thee commend ;
All ignorant that soul, that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire :
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dread-
ful thunder,

Which (not to anger bent) is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, Oh, do not love that wrong!
To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.


A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou the master, mistress of my passion.
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion.
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling :
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth.

A man in hue all hue in his controuling,

Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazeth:


And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a doating,
And by addition me of thee defeated;

By adding one thing, to my purpose nothing.

But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.


WEARY with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind, when body's work's expired.
For then my thoughts (far from where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darkness, which the blind do see.
Save that my soul's imaginary sight,
Presents their shadow to my sightless view;

Which, like a jewel, (hung in ghastly night)

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debar'd the benefit of rest;
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day opprest?

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