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XXXI.

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 removed 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 loved I view in thee,
And thou, all they, haft all the all of me.

XXXII.

If thou furvive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall
And fhalt by fortune once more re-furvey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outftripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

[cover,

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

But fince he died, and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I feen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kiffing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the bafeft clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his vifage hide,
Stealing unseen to weft with this disgrace:
Even fo my fun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain when heaven's fun staineth.

XXXIV.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let bafe clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak

That heals the wound and cures not the difgrace:
Nor can thy fhame give phyfic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the lofs:
The offender's forrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the ftrong offence's cross.
Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV.

No more be grieved at that which thou haft done :
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and fun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myfelf corrupting, falving thy amifs,
Excufing thy fins more than thy fins are;
For to thy fenfual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—

And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence :
Such civil war is in my love and hate,

That I an acceffary needs must be

To that sweet thief which fourly robs from me.

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