IV

BRIGHT star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,

Which there in order take their several places;

In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love Lays down his quiver which he once did bear, Since he that blessed paradise did prove,

And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there
Let others strive to entertain with words
My soul is of a braver mettle made;

I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which time cannot invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you;
Be you most worthy whilst I am most true!

V

NOTHING but "No!" and "I!"* and "I!” and

"No!"

"How falls it out so strangely?" you reply.
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answered so,
With this affirming "No!" denying “I!”
"I love!" You slightly answer "I!"

I say
say "You love! You pule me out a

I

I

say "I die!" You echo me with "I!”

"No!"

"Save me!" I cry; you sigh me out a “No!”

Must woe and I have naught but "No!" and

"I!"?

No "I!" am I, if I no more can have.

Answer no more; with silence make reply,

And let me take myself what I do crave;

Let "No!" and "I!" with I and

you

be so,

Then answer "No!" and "I!" and "I!" and

"No!"

* The "I" of course equals "aye."

VI

How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,

Ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet!
Where I to thee eternity shall give,

When nothing else remaineth of these days,
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise;

Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story,

That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory.

So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,
Still to survive in my immortal song.

VII

LOVE, in a humour, played the prodigal,
And bade my senses to a solemn feast;
Yet more to grace the company withal,
Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest.

No other drink would serve this glutton's turn, But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine;

Where, in his cups, o'ercome with foul excess, Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, And at the banquet in his drunkenness, Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart. A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see, What 'tis to keep a drunkard company!

VIII

THERE's nothing grieves me but that age should haste,

That in my days I may not see thee old;

That where those two clear sparkling eyes are placed,

Only two loopholes that I might behold;

That lovely arched ivory-polished brow Defaced with wrinkles, that I might but see; Thy dainty hair, so curled and crispèd now, Like grizzled moss upon some agèd tree ;

Thy cheek now flush with roses, sunk and lean; Thy lips, with age as any wafer thin!

Thy pearly teeth out of thy head so clean,

That when thou feed'st thy nose shall touch thy chin!

These lines that now thou scornst, which should

delight thee,

Then would I make thee read but to despite thee.