Communications in Nepal 

And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; As high as learning, my rude ignorance. LXXIX Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, But now my gracious numbers are decay.html">decay'd, I grant, sweet love.html">love, thy lovely argument Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He lends thee virtue.html">virtue, and he stole that word And found it in thy cheek: he can afford Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name.html">name, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame! The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; He of tall building, and of goodly pride: The worst was this,--my love was my decay. LXXXI Or I shall live.html">live your epitaph to make, From hence your memory death cannot take, Your name from hence immortal life shall have, The earth can yield me but a common grave, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, You still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,-- And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. What strained touches rhetoric can lend, In true.html">true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd. LXXXIII I never saw that you did painting need, I found, or thought I found, you did exceed And therefore have I slept in your report, How far a modern quill doth come too short, This silence for my sin you did impute, .

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