Thy face is mine eye, and mine is thine.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.

All Kings, and all their favorites, All glory of honors, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year, now, than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things, to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This, no tomorrow hash, nor yesterday, Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

Good is not good, unless A thousand it possess, But doth waste with greediness.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.