XCVI.

Some fay, thy fault is youth, fome wantonnefs;
Some fay, thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen

The baseft jewel will be well efteem'd,

So are thofe errors that in thee are seen

To truths tranflated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the ftern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not fo; I love thee in fuch fort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where !

And yet this time removed was fummer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant iffue feem'd to me

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For fummer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they fing, 'tis with fo dull a cheer

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter s near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dreff'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any fummer's ftory tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet feem'd it winter ftill, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

Sweet thief, whence didft thou fteal thy sweet that
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy foft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou haft too groffly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had ftol'n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did ftand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had ftol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could fee
But fweet or colour it had ftol'n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subje&s light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time fo idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rife, refty Mufe, my love's fweet face furvey,
If Time have any wrinkle

If any, be a fatire to decay,

graven there;

And make Time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame fafter than Time waftes life;

So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.