Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time but till the sun doth show, And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, Short is the glory of the blushing rose, The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burden of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, And that in beauty's lease expired appears The date of age, the kalends of our death,-- But ah! no more, this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old. XLVIII I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have a time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. Ah sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither. And where the sweetest blossoms first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair, Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! XLIX _At the Author's going into Italy_ Ah whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go, To go from sorrow and thine own distress, When every place presents like face of woe, And no remove can make thy sorrows less! Yet go, forsaken! Leave these woods, these plains, Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains, And of both wrongful deems and ill conceives. Seek out some place, and see if any place Can give the least release unto thy grief; Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace, Steal from thyself and be thy cares' own thief. But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain. L _This Sonnet was made at the Author's being in Italy_ Drawn with th'attractive virtue of her eyes, My touched heart turns it to that happy coast, My joyful north, where all my fortune lies, The level of my hopes desired most; There where my Delia, fairer than the sun, Decked with her youth whereon the world doth smile, Joys in that honour which her eyes have won, Th'eternal wonder of our happy isle. Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the north! Neptune's best darling, held between his arms; Divided from the world as better worth, Kept for himself, defended from all harms! Still let disarmed peace deck her and thee; And Muse-foe Mars abroad far fostered be! LI