WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

��OHOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses : But for their virtue only is their show They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.

��"DEING your slave, what should I do but tend

• ^ Upon the hours and times of your desire ?

I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu ; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those ! So true a fool is love, that in your Will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

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