LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee:

The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My fpirit is thine, the better part of me :
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conqueft of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold fuch ftrife

As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ;
Now counting beft to be with you alone,

Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure :
Sometime, all full with feafting on your fight,

And by and by clean ftarved for a look;
Poffeffing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?

Why with the time do I not glance afide
To new-found methods and to compounds ftrange?
Why write I still all one, ever the fame,

And keep invention in a noted weed,

That every word doth almost tell my name,

Showing their birth and where they did proceed?

O, know, fweet love, I always write of you,

And

you and love are still my argument;

So all my best is dreffing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:

For as the fun is daily new and old,
So is my love ftill telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's fhady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progrefs to eternity.

Look, what thy memory cannot contain

Commit to these waste blanks, and thou fhalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

Thefe offices, fo oft as thou wilt look,

Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII.

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse And found fuch fair affistance in my verse every alien pen hath got my use

As

And under thee their poefy disperse.

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to fing

And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

Have added feathers to the learned's wing

And given grace a double majesty.

Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy fweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.