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After a such fruition I shall wake, And but the wakinge, nothinge shall repent And shall to loue more thankfull sonnets make, Then if more honor, teares, and paines were spent. But dearest hart, and deare Image staie, Alass true Ioyes, at best are dreame enough Though yow staie here, yow passe too fast awaie For euen a first, lifes, Taper, is a snvffe, Fild with her loue, mae I bee rather growne Mad with mvch Hart then Ideott with none. Noe Springe nor Summer beautie, hath such grace As I haue seene, in one Autumnall face Younge beauties force our loue, And thats a Rape This doth but counsaile, yet you cannot scape: If twere a shame to loue, here twere no shame, Affections here take Reuerences name; Were her first yeares the Golden Age; thats true But now they are gold oft tried, and ever new: That was her torrid, and enflaminge time This is her tollerable Tropique clyme: Faire Eyes who asks more heate, then comes from hence, Hee in a feuer wishes Pestilence; Call not these wrinckles Graues, if graues they were They were loues, Graues, or els hee is no where; [CW: yett] |
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