By those soft tods of wool, With which the air is full; By all those tinctures there That paint the hemisphere; By dews and drizzling rain, That swell the golden grain; By all those sweets that be I'th' flowery nunnery; By silent nights, and the Three forms of Hecate; By all aspects that bless The sober sorceress, While juice she strains, and pith To make her philtres with; By Time, that hastens on Things to perfection; And by your self, the best Conjurement of the rest; --O, my Electra! be In love with none but me. 126. TO SAPHO Sapho, I will chuse to go Where the northern winds do blow Endless ice, and endless snow; Rather than I once would see But a winter's face in thee,-- To benumb my hopes and me. 127. OF LOVE: A SONNET How Love came in, I do not know, Whether by th'eye, or ear, or no; Or whether with the soul it came, At first, infused with the same; Whether in part 'tis here or there, Or, like the soul, whole every where. This troubles me; but I as well As any other, this can tell; That when from hence she does depart, The outlet then is from the heart. 128. TO DIANEME Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives, yours, yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone, When all your world of beauty's gone. 129. TO DIANEME Dear, though to part it be a hell, Yet, Dianeme, now farewell! Thy frown last night did bid me go, But whither, only grief does know. I do beseech thee, ere we part, (If merciful, as fair thou art; Or else desir'st that maids should tell Thy pity by Love's chronicle) O, Dianeme, rather kill Me, than to make me languish still! 'Tis cruelty in thee to th' height, Thus, thus to wound, not kill outright; Yet there's a way found, if thou please, By sudden death, to give me ease; And thus devised,--do thou but this, --Bequeath to me one parting kiss! So sup'rabundant joy shall be The executioner of me. 130. KISSING USURY Biancha, let Me pay the debt I owe thee for a kiss Thou lend'st to me; And I to thee Will render ten for this. If thou wilt say, Ten will not pay For that so rich a one; I'll clear the sum, If it will come Unto a million. He must of right, To th' utmost mite, Make payment for his pleasure, (By this I guess) Of happiness Who has a little measure. 131. UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES