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XXI.

So is it not with me as with that Mufe
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With fun and moon, with earth and fea's rich gems,
With April's firft-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not fo bright
As thofe gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them fay more that like of hear-say well;
I will not praise that purpose not to fell.

XXII.

My glass shall not perfuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days fhould expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the feemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me :
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

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.

Prefume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gaveft me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put befides his part,
Or fome fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of truft, forget to fay

The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

And in mine own love's ftrength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb prefagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

More than that tongue that more hath more expreff❜d. O, learn to read what filent love hath writ :

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath ftell'd

Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is beft painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bofom's fhop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now fee what good turns eyes for eyes have done :
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breaft, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilft I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves fpread
But as the marigold at the fun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the reft forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

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