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When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field;
Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield;
When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.
Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
The dream's here still even when I wake, it is
If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
And breathed such life with kisses in my lips,
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!
I dream'd, there was an emperor Antony;
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave* of care,
'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: The flame o' the taper
Under these windows: White and azure, laced
On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' the bottom of a cowslip.
*Sleave, is unwrought silk. 'Ravell'd sleave of care,'-the brain. ti. e. The white skin laced with blue veins.
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber :
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
To bed, to bed: Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour
Sleep, gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
* Shapes created by the imagination.
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
Thus in a chapel lying!
See the life as lively mock'd, as ever
I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find,
They are inclined to do so.
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd.
The life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes,
Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,
Thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;
If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
Being an ugly monster,
"Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words: or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war.