O CRUDELIS ADHUC THOU, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st ; If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure! She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is-to render Thee. OF HIS LADY LOVE IN the old age black was not counted fair, But now is black beauty's successive heir, For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem : Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says, beauty should look so. AT THE SPINNET HOW oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! To be so tickled, they would change their state Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, BEHIND THE VEIL THE expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Enjoy'd no sooner but despiséd straight; Mad in pursuit and in possession so ; -All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. TRUTH WITHOUT DISGUISE MY mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, And in some perfumes is there more delight I love to hear her speak, yet well I know My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my Love as rare As any she belied with false compare. |