Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not faid Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharp'ned in his former might: So, love, be ou; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, To-morrow fee again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Let this fad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Come daily to the banks, that, when they fee Return of love, more bleft may be the view;
Or call it winter, which, being full of care, Makes fummer's welcome thrice more wish'd,
Being your flave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your defire?
I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor fervices to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilft I, my fovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your fervant once adieu; Nor dare I queftion with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a fad flave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
That god forbid that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! O, let me fuffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd abfence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accufing you of injury.
Be where you lift, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of felf-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting fo be hell, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amifs
The fecond burthen of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courfes of the fun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might fee what the old world could say To this compofed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the fame.
O, fure I am, the wits of former days
To fubjects worse have given admiring praise.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes haften to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipfes 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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