819Gain
st death,
and all obliuious emnity
820Shall you pace forth, your prai
se
shall
stil
finde roome,
821Euen in the eyes of all po
sterity
822That weare this world out to the ending doome.
823 So til the iudgement that your
selfe ari
se,
824You liue in this,
and dwell in louers eies.
826Sweet loue renew thy force , be it not
said
827Thy edge
should blunter be then apetite,
828Which but too daie by feeding is alaied,
829To morrow
sharpned in his former might.
830So loue be thou,
although too daie thou
fill
831Thy hungrie eies,
euen till they winck with fulne
sse,
832Too morrow
see againe,
and doe not kill
833The
spirit of Loue,
with a perpetual dulne
sse:
834Let this
sad
Intrim like the Ocean be
835Which parts the
shore,
where two contra
cted new,
836Come daily to the banckes,
that when they
see:
837Returne of loue,
more ble
st may be the view.
838 As cal it Winter,
which being ful of care,
839Makes
Sōmers welcome,
thrice more wi
sh'd,
more rare:
841BEing your
slaue what
should I doe but tend,
842Vpon the houres,
and times of your de
sire?
843I haue no precious time at al to
spend;
844Nor
seruices to doe til you require.
845Nor dare I chide the world without end houre,
846Whil
st I(my
soueraine)watch the clock for you,
847Nor thinke the bitterne
sse of ab
sence
sowre,
848When you haue bid your
seruant once adieue.
849Nor dare I que
stion with my iealious thought,
850Where you may be,
or your a
ffaires
suppo
se,
851But like a
sad
slaue
stay and thinke of nought
852Saue where you are , how happy you make tho
se.
853 So true a foole is loue,
that in your Will,
854 (Though you doe any thing)he thinkes no ill.
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