|
| But they are ours as fruits are ours, |
| He that but tastes, he that devours, |
| And he that leaves all, doth as well, |
| Chang'd loves are but chang'd sorts of meate; |
| And when he hath the kernel eate, |
| Who doth not fling away the shell? |
|
| Loves growth. |
|
| I scarce believe my love to be so pure |
| As I had thought it was, |
| Because it doth endure |
| Vicissitude, and season, as the grass; |
| Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore, |
| My love was infinite, if spring make't more. |
|
| But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow |
| With more, not only be no quintessence, |
| But mixt of all stuffs vexing soul, or sense, |
| And of the Sun his active vigour borrow, |
| Love's not so pure an abstract, as they use |
| To say, which have no Mistress but their Muse, |
| But, as all else, being elemented too, |
| Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. |
|
| And yet no greater, but more eminent, |
| Love by the spring is grown; |
| As in the firmament, |
| Stars by the Sun are not inlarge'd, but shown. |
| Gentle love deeds, are blossoms on a bough, |
| From loves awakened root doe bud out now. |
| If, as in water stir'd more circles be |
| Produc'd by one, love such additions take,
|
[CW: Those] |