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THE WORLD'S WAY

TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry,—
As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive Good attending captain Ill:

-Tired with all these, from these would I be

gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.

THE ONE AND ONLY

AH! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,

That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek

And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ? For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad.

AGE UNSHAMED

THUS is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do

now,

Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away
To live a second life on second head;

Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay :

In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

MEDIO DE FONTE

THOSE parts of thee that the world's eye doth

view

Want nothing that the thought of hearts can

mend;

All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues that give thee so thine own In other accents do this praise confound

By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind,

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds :

But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

INEVITABLE SLANDER

THAT thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.

Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days
Either not assail'd, or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged :

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst

owe.

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