Both souls thus in desire are one, And each is two in skill; 10 Doubled in intellect alone, United in the will. Weak Nature no such power doth know: Love only can these wonders show. [_The Exchange._] _1647_ 'Exchange of Souls'. In editions other than _1651_ there is a refrain after each stanza-speech: Weak Nature no such power doth know, Love only can these wonders show. ] _Unaltered by Sickness._ Sickness, in vain thou dost invade A Beauty that can never fade! Could all thy malice but impair One of the sweets which crown this fair, Or steal the spirits from her eye, Or kiss into a paler dye The blushing roses of her cheek, Our drooping hopes might justly seek Redress from thee, and thou might'st save Thousands of lovers from the grave: 10 But such assaults are vain, for she Is too divine to stoop to thee; Blest with a form as much too high For any change, as Destiny, Which no attempt can violate; For what's her Beauty, is our Fate. [_Unaltered by Sickness._] Lines 1 and 2 are expanded in _1656_ to: Pale, envious Sickness, hence! no more Possess our breast, too cold before. In vain, alas! thou dost invade Those beauties which can never fade. ] [Line: 4 'On those sweets which crown the fair' _1656_.] [Line: 7 blushing] blooming _1657_.] [Line: 8 drooping] dropping _1647_: suffering _1656_.] [Line: 14 For any] _1656_ _But_ any--nonsensically.] _On his Mistress's Death._ PETRARCH. Love the ripe harvest of my toils Began to cherish with his smiles, Preparing me to be indued With all the joys I long pursued, When my fresh hopes, fair and full blown, Death blasts, ere I could call my own. Malicious Death! why with rude force Dost thou my Fair from me divorce? False Life! why in this loathéd chain Me from my Fair dost thou detain? 10 In whom assistance shall I find? Alike are Life and Death unkind. Pardon me, Love; thy power outshines, And laughs at their infirm designs. She is not wedded to a tomb, Nor I to sorrow in her room. They, what thou join'st, can ne'er divide She lives in me, in her I died. _The Exequies._ Draw near, You Lovers that complain Of Fortune or Disdain, And to my ashes lend a tear; Melt the hard marble with your groans, And soften the relentless stones, Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide, Of all Love's cruelties, and Beauty's pride! No verse, No epicedium bring, 10 Nor peaceful requiem sing, To charm the terrors of my hearse; No profane numbers must flow near The sacred silence that dwells here. Vast griefs are dumb; softly, oh! softly mourn, Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.