LXXXV



My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,

While comments of your praise richly compil'd,

Reserve their character with golden quill,

And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.

I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,

And like unlettered clerk still cry 'Amen'

To every hymn that able spirit affords,

In polish'd form of well-refined pen.

Hearing you praised, I say ''tis so, 'tis true,'

And to the most of praise add something more;

But that is in my thought, whose love to you,

Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.

  Then others, for the breath of words respect,

  Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

 	--William Shakespeare

LVII



Being your slave what should I do but tend,

Upon the hours, and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend;

Nor services to do, till you require. 

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,

When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love, that in your will,

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

 	--William Shakespeare