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LXXXVII



Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

And like enough thou know\'st thy estimate,

The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;

My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?

And for that riches where is my deserving?

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

And so my patent back again is swerving.

Thy self thou gav\'st, thy own worth then not knowing,

Or me to whom thou gav\'st it, else mistaking;

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

Comes home again, on better judgement making.

  Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,

  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

 	--William Shakespeare

LXXIII



That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin\'d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see\'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death\'s second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou see\'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consum\'d with that which it was nourish\'d by.

  This thou perceiv\'st, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

 	--William Shakespeare