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Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
O stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming
That can sing both high and low ; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers' meeting –
Every wise man's son doth know.
at is love? 't is not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ;
What's to come is still unsure :
THEN icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail ;
greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;
THAT time of year thou may’st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
Which by and by black night doth take away,
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more
strong, To love that well which thou must leave erelong.
THEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought
remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
- But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
So do our minutes hasten to their end ;
Nativity once in the main of light
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
AREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate :
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION
"HEY that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;