THE IDEAL WHILST I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet Love, thy lovely argument He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word Then thank him not for that which he doth say, OF SHAKESPEARE 135 THE RIVAL DEFIED HOW I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Then if he thrive and I be cast away, A PROPHECY R I shall live your epitaph to make, OR Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, You still shall live-such virtue hath my penWhere breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. I THE TRUE PRAISE GRANT thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, And do so, Love; yet when they have devised And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. OF HIS SILENCE I NEVER saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed And therefore have I slept in your report, This silence for my sin you did impute, When others would give life and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. |