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And death's dim look in life's mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,
As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life liy'd in death, and death in life.


IMPERIOUSLY he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,

And now his woven girts he breaks asunder, The bearing Earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like Heaven's

thunder; The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up prick'd ; his braided hanging mane

Upon his compass'd crest now stands on end ; His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,

As from a furnace, vapours doth he send : His eye, which glisters scornfully like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometimes he trots as if he told the steps,

With gentle majesty, and modest pride ; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who would say, “ Lo ! thus my strength is

try'd ; And thus I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by."

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,

In limning out a well-proportioned steed,

His art with Nature's workmanship at strife,

As if the dead the living should exceed ;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and

long, Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril

wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing

strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender

hide : Look what a horse should have, he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares ;

Anon he starts at strirring of a feather ; To bid the wind a base he now prepares,

And whêr he run, or fly, they know not whether ; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.


When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen Earth) sings hymns at Heaven's gate,
For thy sweet love remember’d, such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

LET me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one :
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame ;
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name :
But do not so ; I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you wo.

O if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse ;
But let your love even with my life decay :
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing;
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they

grew :
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

O For my sake do you with fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means, which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd ;

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eyesell, (a) 'gainst my strong infection ;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be

taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and

cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

O NEVER say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from myself depart,
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie :
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again ;

(a) Vinegar; verjuice.

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