|
| We can dye by it, if not live by love, |
| And if unfit for tomb or hearse |
| Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; |
| And if no peece of Chronicle we prove, |
| Wee'l build in sonets pretty roomes. |
| As well a well wrought urne becomes |
| The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombes, |
| And by those hymnes all shall approve |
| Us Canoniz'd for love: |
|
| And thus invoke us; you whom reverend love |
| Made one anothers hermitage; |
| You to whom love was peace, that now is rage, |
| Who did the whole worlds soul contract, and drove |
| Into the glasses of your eyes |
| So made such mirrours, and such spies, |
| That they did all to you epitomize, |
| Countries, Towns, Courts Beg from above |
| A patern of your love. |
|
| The Triple Fool. |
|
| I am two fooles, I know, |
| For loving and for saying so |
| In whining Poetry, |
| But where's the wiser man, That would not be I, |
| If she would not deny? |
| Then as th' earths inward narrow crooked lanes |
| Do purge sea waters fretful salt away, |
| I thought, if I could draw my paines, |
| Through Rhimes vexation, I should them allay. |
| Grief brought to number cannot be so fierce, |
| For, He tames it, that fetters it in verse.
|
[CW: But] |