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CXLIV.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two fpirits do fuggeft me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me foon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my faint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this fhall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till

my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate,’
To me that languish'd for her fake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus anew to greet;
'I hate' fhe alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away;

'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And faved my life, faying-Not you.'

K

CXLVI.

Poor foul, the centre of my finful earth,
[Preff'd by] these rebel powers that thee array,
Why doft thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls fo coftly gay?
Why fo large coft, having fo fhort a lease,
Doft thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excefs,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, foul, live thou upon thy fervant's lofs,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in felling hours of drofs;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So fhalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease ;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain fickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Defire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth, vainly expreff'd ;

For I have fworn thee fair, and thought thec
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. [bright,

CXLVIII.

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled,
That cenfures falfely what they fee aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is fo vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The fun itself fees not till heaven clears.

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Left eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

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