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Thou not, as
Others do

Why canst thou not, as others do,
Look on me with unwounding eyes?
And yet look sweet, but yet not so;
Smile, but not in killing wise;
Arm not thy graces to confound;
Only look, but do not wound.

Why should mine eyes see more in you
Than they can see in all the rest?
For I can others' beauties view

And not find my heart opprest.

O be as others are to me,
Or let me be more to thee.

O Night,
O Jealous
Night

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my measures!

O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content!

There's none but only thou that can perform my pleasures,

Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Thy beams, thy spiteful beams, thy lamps that burn too brightly,

Discover all my trains, and naked lay my drifts,

That night by night I hope, yet fail my purpose nightly;

Thy envious glaring gleam defeateth so my shifts.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow!

Whose joy's in lack so long a hell of torment breeds.

Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow:

Desire is guide to me, and Love no lodestar needs.

Let sailors gaze on Stars and Moon so freshly shining;

Let them that miss the way be guided by the light;

I know my Lady's bower, there needs no more divining;

Affection sees in dark, and Love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch awhile! hold in thy horns for shining,

And glad not lowering Night with thy too glorious rays;

But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining,

That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is wrought, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady,

All other nights and days in honour of that night,

That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady,

Wherein my Love had eyes that lighted my delight.

Shall I Look
to Ease
my Grief

Shall I look to ease my grief?

No, my sight is lost with eying:
Shall I speak and beg relief?

No, my voice is hoarse with crying:
What remains but only dying?

Love and I of late did part,

But the boy, my peace envying,
Like a Parthian threw his dart
Backward, and did wound me flying:
What remains but only dying?

She whom then I looked on,
My remembrance beautifying,
Stays with me though I am gone,
Gone, and at her mercy lying:
What remains but only dying?

Shall I try her thoughts and write?
No, I have no means of trying:
If I should, yet at first sight
She would answer with denying:
What remains but only dying?

Thus my vital breath doth waste,
And, my blood with sorrow drying,
Sighs and tears make life to last
For a while, their place supplying:
What remains but only dying?

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