In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

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
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then, thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

O! 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)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,

On your broad main doth wilfully appear.3

The fourth in the series of ten on

"Rivalry."

35

35 Malone conjectures that Spenser was the "better spirit" here alluded to. Spenser died at London on the 16th of January,

1599.

H

Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat;
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then, if he thrive, and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
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,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of

men.

CXXIX.

LXXXII.

61.t

I grant, thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore may'st without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

* Continuate with the LXXIV., and closing the series of sixteen which begins with the cxxvI.

+ This Sonnet and the next five are classed in continuation of the LXXX. in the series of ten entitled "Rivalry," and beginning with the 1.XXVI.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd

In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend:
And their gross painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood: in thee it is abus'd.

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
The barren tender of a poet's debt:

36

And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,

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.

Who is it that says most? which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.

36 Modern is here used in the sense of common, ordinary. The plays have a number of such instances. See Macbeth, Act iv. sc. 3, note 9

H.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story:
Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compil'd,
Reserve" their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.

I think good thoughts, while others write good

words;

And, like unletter'd clerk,

still cry

"Amen " To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polish'd form of well-refined pen.

Hearing you prais'd, I say, ""Tis so, 'tis true," And to the most of praise add something more; But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rank be

fore:

Then, others for the breath of words respect;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,

37 That is, preserve; a frequent usage.

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a moital pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished:
He, nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence;
But when your countenance fill'd up his line, 38
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing,
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, tly own worth then not know-
ing,

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

CXXI.

*The last in the series of ten on "Rivalry," beginning with the LXXVI.

38 So the original, fill'd being, as usual, editions print filed, and explain it polished.

spelt fild. Modern The use of matter

shows that fill'd is right: for how can a thing be polished up with matter?

и