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et those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Jnlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Freat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold at the sun's eye; And in themselves their pride lies buried, 'or at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, fter a thousand victories once foil'd: 3 from the book of honour razed quite, nd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. hen happy I, that love and am belov'd, Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd. XXVI.
ord of my love, to whom in vassalage by merit hath my duty strongly knit; o thee I send this written embassage, o witness duty, not to shew my wit: uty so great, which wit so poor as mine ay make seem bare, in wanting words to shew it; ut that I hope some good conceit of thine thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: Il whatsoever star that guides my moving, ints on me graciously with fair aspect, id puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
shew me worthy of thy sweet respect: en may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Il then, not shew my head where thou may'st prove
eary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
e dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;
it then begins a journey in my head,
work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: r then my thoughts (from far where I abide) tend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
d keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, oking on darkness which the blind do see: ve that my soul's imaginary sight esents thy shadow to my sightless view, bich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, kes black night beauteous, and her old face new. thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, r thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
w can I then return in happy plight, at am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
en day's oppression is not eas'd by night, t day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? d each, though enemies to either's reign, in consent shake hands to torture me; one by toil, the other to complain w far I toil, still farther off from thee. ell the day, to please him, thou art bright, 1 dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: Batter I the swart-complexion'd night; en sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, [ger. (night doth nightly make grief's length seem stron
en in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I alone beweep my out-cast state, t trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, I look upon myself, and curse my fate, shing me like to one more rich in hope, tur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, iring this man's art, and that man's scope, th what I most enjoy contented least; in these thoughts myself almost despising, ly I think on thee, and then my state se to the lark at break of day arising m sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate: thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings, t then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov'd I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
If thou survive my well-contented day, [cover;
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought!
Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
Aud from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; [eth.
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun stain-
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds, o'er-take me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
"Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare;
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense
(Thy adverse party is thy advocate,)
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence :
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief, which sourly robs from me.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be born alone,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame;
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal, stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine, which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to out-live long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
That thou hast ber, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:-
Thou dost love her, because thou knew'st I love
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve be
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, And losing her, my friend hath found that less
That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one:
Sweet flattery!-then she loves but me alene. !
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before
No love, my love, that thou may'st true love cmd:
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this mare.
Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thon usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shews,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be fees.
That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone.
O absence, what a torment would'st thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
(Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,)
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail d
And when a woman woos, what woman's san
Will sourly leave her till she have prevail d
Ah me! but yet thou might'st, my sweet, forter
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forc'd to break a two-fold tr
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best se
For all the day they view things unrespected
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on the
And darkly bright, are bright in dark direct
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make
How would thy shadow's form form happy s
To the clear day with thy much clearer ligh
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so
How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed my
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth
All days are nights to see, till I see thee,
And nights, bright days, when dreams do sher
If the dull substance of my flesh were though
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then, despite of space, I would be brea
From limits far remote, where thou dost stag
No matter then, although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee,
For nimble thought can jump both sea and is
As soon as think the place where he would
But ah! thought kills me, that I am not thos
To leap large lengths of miles, when thou art
But that, so much of earth and water wrough
I must attend time's leisure with my moan
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe:
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
n tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
inks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Jntil life's composition be recur'd
By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assur'd Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: 'his told, I joy; but then no longer glad, send them back again, and straight grow sad. XLVI.
twixt mine eye and heart a league is took, ad each doth good turns now unto the other: hen that mine eye is famish'd for a look, heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, ith my love's picture then my eye doth feast, d to the painted banquet bids my heart: other time mine eye is my heart's guest, d in his thoughts of love doth share a part: either by thy picture or my love, yself away, art present still with me;
r thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, d I am still with them, and they with thee; if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Takes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
w careful was I, when I took my way, ch trifle under truest bars to thrust; at, to my use, it might unused stay om hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
t thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
st worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
u, best of dearest, and mine only care,
left the prey of every vulgar thief.
e have I not lock'd up in any chest,
where thou art not, though I feel thou art, the gentle closure of my breast, m whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part; I even thence thou wilt be stolen, I fear, truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
inst that time, if ever that time come, en I shall see thee frown on my defects, enas thy love hath cast his utmost sum, I'd to that audit by advis'd respects; inst that time, when thou shalt strangely pass, i scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye; en love, converted from the thing it was, Il reasons find of settled gravity; inst that time do I ensconce me here, hin the knowledge of mine own desert, this my hand against myself uprear, uard the lawful reasons on thy part: eave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, e, why to love, I can alledge no cause.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek,-my weary travel's end,—
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,-
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind?
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect love being made,
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure,
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you, as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe, which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foizon of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty shew,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.-
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses;
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer'sbreath their masked buds discloses ;
But, for their virtue only is their shew,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves; Sweet roses do not so; =
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made;
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall out-live this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite;
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Or call it winter, which being full of care, [rare.
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more
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 any thing) he thinks no ill.
That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer (being at your beck)
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list; your charter is so strong,
That you yourself may privilege your time:
Do what you will, to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
If there be nothing new, but that, which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child?
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Shew me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eye-lids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight!
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O no! thy love, though much, is not so great;
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere
From me far off, with others all-too-Dear.
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shews me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erwon;
When hours have drain'd his blood,and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful mare
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of out-worn bury'd age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd,
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage:
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-
That time will come, and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,--As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 1 And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-ty'd by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to shew what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.
Thus is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and died, as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were borne,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To shew false heart what beauty was of yore.
LXIX. Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thine outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound, By seeing farther than the eye hath shewn. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy shew,
The solve is this,-that thou dost common grow.
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarg'd:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy shew,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay:
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit liv'd in me, that you should love
After my death,-dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
That time of year thou may'st 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 seest the twilight of such day
As after sun-set 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 seest 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
To love that well which thou must leave ere long: LXXIV.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due:
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains,