Download: William Shakespeare Sonnets I - CLIV

William Shakespeare Sonnets I - CLIV Sonnet I Sonnet V From fairest creatures we desire increase, Those hours, that with gentle work did frame That thereby beauty's rose might never die, The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, But as the riper should by time decease, Will play the tyrants to the very same His tender heir might bear his memory: And that unfair which fairly doth excel: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, For never-resting time leads summer on Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, To hideous winter and confounds him there; Making a famine where abu...
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William Shakespeare


I - CLIV, Sonnet I Sonnet V From fairest creatures we desire increase, Those hours, that with gentle work did frame That thereby beauty's rose might never die, The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, But as the riper should by time decease, Will play the tyrants to the very same His tender heir might bear his memory: And that unfair which fairly doth excel: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, For never-resting time leads summer on Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, To hideous winter and confounds him there; Making a famine where abundance lies, Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament Then, were not summer's distillation left, And only herald to the gaudy spring, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Within thine own bud buriest thy content Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. Sonnet II Sonnet VI When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, Then let not winter's ragged hand deface And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, That use is not forbidden usury, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, That's for thyself to breed another thee, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Proving his beauty by succession thine! Leaving thee living in posterity? This were to be new made when thou art old, Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. Sonnet III Sonnet VII Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Now is the time that face should form another; Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Serving with looks his sacred majesty; For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Or who is he so fond will be the tomb yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Attending on his golden pilgrimage; Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Calls back the lovely April of her prime: Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, So thou through windows of thine age shall see The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. From his low tract and look another way: But if thou live, remember'd not to be, So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Die single, and thine image dies with thee. Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. Sonnet IV Sonnet VIII Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, And being frank she lends to those are free. Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, The bounteous largess given thee to give? By unions married, do offend thine ear, Profitless usurer, why dost thou use They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. For having traffic with thyself alone, Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, Resembling sire and child and happy mother What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.', Sonnet IX Sonnet XIII Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are That thou consumest thyself in single life? No longer yours than you yourself here live: Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. Against this coming end you should prepare, The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; And your sweet semblance to some other give. The world will be thy widow and still weep So should that beauty which you hold in lease That thou no form of thee hast left behind, Find no determination: then you were When every private widow well may keep Yourself again after yourself's decease, By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; Which husbandry in honour might uphold But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And kept unused, the user so destroys it. And barren rage of death's eternal cold? No love toward others in that bosom sits O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know That on himself such murderous shame commits. You had a father: let your son say so. Sonnet X Sonnet XIV For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; Who for thyself art so unprovident. And yet methinks I have astronomy, Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But not to tell of good or evil luck, But that thou none lovest is most evident; Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Or say with princes if it shall go well, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. By oft predict that I in heaven find: O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? And, constant stars, in them I read such art Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, As truth and beauty shall together thrive, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; Make thee another self, for love of me, Or else of thee this I prognosticate: That beauty still may live in thine or thee. Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. Sonnet XI Sonnet XV As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest When I consider every thing that grows In one of thine, from that which thou departest; Holds in perfection but a little moment, And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: When I perceive that men as plants increase, Without this, folly, age and cold decay: Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky, If all were minded so, the times should cease Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And threescore year would make the world away. And wear their brave state out of memory; Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more; Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: To change your day of youth to sullied night; She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby And all in war with Time for love of you, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. As he takes from you, I engraft you new. Sonnet XII Sonnet XVI When I do count the clock that tells the time, But wherefore do not you a mightier way And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? When I behold the violet past prime, And fortify yourself in your decay And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Now stand you on the top of happy hours, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And many maiden gardens yet unset And summer's green all girded up in sheaves With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: Then of thy beauty do I question make, So should the lines of life that life repair, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, And die as fast as they see others grow; Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill., Sonnet XVII Sonnet XXI Who will believe my verse in time to come, So is it not with me as with that Muse If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Who heaven itself for ornament doth use Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. And every fair with his fair doth rehearse If I could write the beauty of your eyes Making a couplement of proud compare, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, The age to come would say 'This poet lies: With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. So should my papers yellow'd with their age O' let me, true in love, but truly write, Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And then believe me, my love is as fair And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage As any mother's child, though not so bright And stretched metre of an antique song: As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: But were some child of yours alive that time, Let them say more than like of hearsay well; You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. I will not praise that purpose not to sell. Sonnet XVIII Sonnet XXII Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Thou art more lovely and more temperate: So long as youth and thou are of one date; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, But when in thee time's furrows I behold, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Then look I death my days should expiate. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, For all that beauty that doth cover thee And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, And every fair from fair sometime declines, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; How can I then be elder than thou art? But thy eternal summer shall not fade O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary When in eternal lines to time thou growest: As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. Sonnet XIX Sonnet XXIII Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, As an unperfect actor on the stage And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Who with his fear is put besides his part, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood; Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, So I, for fear of trust, forget to say And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, O, let my books be then the eloquence Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Him in thy course untainted do allow Who plead for love and look for recompense For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: My love shall in my verse ever live young. To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Sonnet XX Sonnet XXIV A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; And perspective it is the painter's art. An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, For through the painter must you see his skill, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; To find where your true image pictured lies; A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. And for a woman wert thou first created; Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me And by addition me of thee defeated, Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. They draw but what they see, know not the heart., Sonnet XXV Sonnet XXIX Let those who are in favour with their stars When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, Of public honour and proud titles boast, I all alone beweep my outcast state Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. And look upon myself and curse my fate, Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, But as the marigold at the sun's eye, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, And in themselves their pride lies buried, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, For at a frown they in their glory die. With what I most enjoy contented least; The painful warrior famoused for fight, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Is from the book of honour razed quite, Like to the lark at break of day arising And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; Then happy I, that love and am beloved For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings Where I may not remove nor be removed. That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Sonnet XXVI Sonnet XXX Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, I summon up remembrance of things past, To thee I send this written embassage, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, To witness duty, not to show my wit: And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, But that I hope some good conceit of thine And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, Points on me graciously with fair aspect And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Which I new pay as if not paid before. Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me. All losses are restored and sorrows end. Sonnet XXVII Sonnet XXXI Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; Which I by lacking have supposed dead, But then begins a journey in my head, And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: And all those friends which I thought buried. For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, How many a holy and obsequious tear Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, As interest of the dead, which now appear Looking on darkness which the blind do see But things removed that hidden in thee lie! Save that my soul's imaginary sight Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Who all their parts of me to thee did give; Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. That due of many now is thine alone: Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, Their images I loved I view in thee, For thee and for myself no quiet find. And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. Sonnet XXVIII Sonnet XXXII How can I then return in happy plight, If thou survive my well-contented day, That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, When day's oppression is not eased by night, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Compare them with the bettering of the time, Do in consent shake hands to torture me; And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, The one by toil, the other to complain Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, How far I toil, still farther off from thee. Exceeded by the height of happier men. I tell the day, to please them thou art bright O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. To march in ranks of better equipage: But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer But since he died and poets better prove, And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.', Sonnet XXXIII Sonnet XXXVII Full many a glorious morning have I seen As a decrepit father takes delight Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, To see his active child do deeds of youth, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, With ugly rack on his celestial face, Or any of these all, or all, or more, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: I make my love engrafted to this store: Even so my sun one early morn did shine So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; That I in thy abundance am sufficed The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. And by a part of all thy glory live. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee: Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. This wish I have; then ten times happy me! Sonnet XXXIV Sonnet XXXVIII Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, How can my Muse want subject to invent, And make me travel forth without my cloak, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Thine own sweet argument, too excellent Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? For every vulgar paper to rehearse? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; For no man well of such a salve can speak For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace: When thou thyself dost give invention light? Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Eternal numbers to outlive long date. Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, If my slight Muse do please these curious days, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. Sonnet XXXV Sonnet XXXIX No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; When thou art all the better part of me? Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee? All men make faults, and even I in this, Even for this let us divided live, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, And our dear love lose name of single one, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, That by this separation I may give Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; That due to thee which thou deservest alone. For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense- O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, Thy adverse party is thy advocate- Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Such civil war is in my love and hate Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive, That I an accessary needs must be And that thou teachest how to make one twain, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. By praising him here who doth hence remain! Sonnet XXXVI Sonnet XL Let me confess that we two must be twain, Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; Although our undivided loves are one: What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? So shall those blots that do with me remain No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; Without thy help by me be borne alone. All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. In our two loves there is but one respect, Then if for my love thou my love receivest, Though in our lives a separable spite, I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; Which though it alter not love's sole effect, But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; Nor thou with public kindness honour me, And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief Unless thou take that honour from thy name: To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. But do not so; I love thee in such sort Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes., Sonnet XLI Sonnet XLV Those petty wrongs that liberty commits, The other two, slight air and purging fire, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Are both with thee, wherever I abide; Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, The first my thought, the other my desire, For still temptation follows where thou art. These present-absent with swift motion slide. Gentle thou art and therefore to be won, For when these quicker elements are gone Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed; In tender embassy of love to thee, And when a woman woos, what woman's son My life, being made of four, with two alone Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed? Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; Ay me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear, Until life's composition be recured And chide try beauty and thy straying youth, By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who lead thee in their riot even there Who even but now come back again, assured Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth, Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. I send them back again and straight grow sad. Sonnet XLII Sonnet XLVI That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; How to divide the conquest of thy sight; That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye: My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie- Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her; A closet never pierced with crystal eyes- And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, But the defendant doth that plea deny Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. And says in him thy fair appearance lies. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, To 'cide this title is impanneled And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And by their verdict is determined And both for my sake lay on me this cross: The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part: But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part, Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. And my heart's right thy inward love of heart. Sonnet XLIII Sonnet XLVII When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, For all the day they view things unrespected; And each doth good turns now unto the other: But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast How would thy shadow's form form happy show And to the painted banquet bids my heart; To the clear day with thy much clearer light, Another time mine eye is my heart's guest When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made So, either by thy picture or my love, By looking on thee in the living day, Thyself away art resent still with me; When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! And I am still with them and they with thee; All days are nights to see till I see thee, Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. Sonnet XLIV Sonnet XLVIII If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, How careful was I, when I took my way, Injurious distance should not stop my way; Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, For then despite of space I would be brought, That to my use it might unused stay From limits far remote where thou dost stay. From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! No matter then although my foot did stand But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Upon the farthest earth removed from thee; Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief, For nimble thought can jump both sea and land Thou, best of dearest and mine only care, As soon as think the place where he would be. Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought, Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, But that so much of earth and water wrought Within the gentle closure of my breast, I must attend time's leisure with my moan, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; Receiving nought by elements so slow And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear, But heavy tears, badges of either's woe. For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear., Sonnet XLIX Sonnet LIII Against that time, if ever that time come, What is your substance, whereof are you made, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Since every one hath, every one, one shade, Call'd to that audit by advised respects; And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye, Is poorly imitated after you; When love, converted from the thing it was, On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, Shall reasons find of settled gravity,- And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Against that time do I ensconce me here Speak of the spring and foison of the year; Within the knowledge of mine own desert, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, And this my hand against myself uprear, The other as your bounty doth appear; To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: And you in every blessed shape we know. To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, In all external grace you have some part, Since why to love I can allege no cause. But you like none, none you, for constant heart. Sonnet L Sonnet LIV How heavy do I journey on the way, O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem When what I seek, my weary travel's end, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! Doth teach that ease and that repose to say The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!' For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, As if by some instinct the wretch did know Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on But, for their virtue only is their show, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide; They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Which heavily he answers with a groan, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; More sharp to me than spurring to his side; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: For that same groan doth put this in my mind; And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, My grief lies onward and my joy behind. When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. Sonnet LI Sonnet LV Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; From where thou art why should I haste me thence? But you shall shine more bright in these contents Till I return, of posting is no need. Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, When wasteful war shall statues overturn, When swift extremity can seem but slow? And broils root out the work of masonry, Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind; Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn In winged speed no motion shall I know: The living record of your memory. Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made, Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Shall neigh-no dull flesh-in his fiery race; Even in the eyes of all posterity But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade; That wear this world out to the ending doom. Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, So, till the judgment that yourself arise, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes. Sonnet LII Sonnet LVI So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, The which he will not every hour survey, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might: Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, To-morrow see again, and do not kill Or captain jewels in the carcanet. The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Let this sad interim like the ocean be Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, Which parts the shore, where two contracted new To make some special instant special blest, Come daily to the banks, that, when they see By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Return of love, more blest may be the view; Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Else call it winter, which being full of care Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare., Sonnet LVII Sonnet LXI Being your slave, what should I do but tend Is it thy will thy image should keep open Upon the hours and times of your desire? My heavy eyelids to the weary night? I have no precious time at all to spend, Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, Nor services to do, till you require. While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, So far from home into my deeds to pry, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour To find out shames and idle hours in me, When you have bid your servant once adieu; The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? Nor dare I question with my jealous thought O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake; But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, Save, where you are how happy you make those. To play the watchman ever for thy sake: So true a fool is love that in your will, For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. From me far off, with others all too near. Sonnet LVIII Sonnet LXII That god forbid that made me first your slave, Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye I should in thought control your times of pleasure, And all my soul and all my every part; Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, And for this sin there is no remedy, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! It is so grounded inward in my heart. O, let me suffer, being at your beck, Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; No shape so true, no truth of such account; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque, And for myself mine own worth do define, Without accusing you of injury. As I all other in all worths surmount. Be where you list, your charter is so strong But when my glass shows me myself indeed, That you yourself may privilege your time Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, To what you will; to you it doth belong Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. Self so self-loving were iniquity. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell; 'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. Painting my age with beauty of thy days. Sonnet LIX Sonnet LXIII If there be nothing new, but that which is Against my love shall be, as I am now, Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn; Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow The second burden of a former child! With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn O, that record could with a backward look, Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, And all those beauties whereof now he's king Show me your image in some antique book, Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, Since mind at first in character was done! Stealing away the treasure of his spring; That I might see what the old world could say For such a time do I now fortify To this composed wonder of your frame; Against confounding age's cruel knife, Whether we are mended, or whether better they, That he shall never cut from memory Or whether revolution be the same. My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: O, sure I am, the wits of former days His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, To subjects worse have given admiring praise. And they shall live, and he in them still green. Sonnet LX Sonnet LXIV Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced So do our minutes hasten to their end; The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; Each changing place with that which goes before, When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed In sequent toil all forwards do contend. And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; Nativity, once in the main of light, When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight, And the firm soil win of the watery main, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Increasing store with loss and loss with store; Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth When I have seen such interchange of state, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Or state itself confounded to decay; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: That Time will come and take my love away. And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, This thought is as a death, which cannot choose Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. But weep to have that which it fears to lose., Sonnet LXV Sonnet LXIX Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; Against the wreckful siege of battering days, But those same tongues that give thee so thine own When rocks impregnable are not so stout, In other accents do this praise confound Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. O fearful meditation! where, alack, They look into the beauty of thy mind, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: O, none, unless this miracle have might, But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. The solve is this, that thou dost common grow. Sonnet LXVI Sonnet LXX Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, As, to behold desert a beggar born, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, The ornament of beauty is suspect, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, So thou be good, slander doth but approve And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time; And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And strength by limping sway disabled, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. And art made tongue-tied by authority, Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, Either not assail'd or victor being charged; And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, And captive good attending captain ill: To tie up envy evermore enlarged: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. Sonnet LXVII Sonnet LXXI Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, No longer mourn for me when I am dead And with his presence grace impiety, Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell That sin by him advantage should achieve Give warning to the world that I am fled And lace itself with his society? From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Why should false painting imitate his cheek Nay, if you read this line, remember not And steal dead seeing of his living hue? The hand that writ it; for I love you so Why should poor beauty indirectly seek That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? If thinking on me then should make you woe. Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, O, if, I say, you look upon this verse Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? When I perhaps compounded am with clay, For she hath no exchequer now but his, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. But let your love even with my life decay, O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had Lest the wise world should look into your moan In days long since, before these last so bad. And mock you with me after I am gone. Sonnet LXVIII Sonnet LXXII Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, O, lest the world should task you to recite When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, What merit lived in me, that you should love Before the bastard signs of fair were born, After my death, dear love, forget me quite, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; For you in me can nothing worthy prove; Before the golden tresses of the dead, Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To do more for me than mine own desert, To live a second life on second head; And hang more praise upon deceased I Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: Than niggard truth would willingly impart: In him those holy antique hours are seen, O, lest your true love may seem false in this, Without all ornament, itself and true, That you for love speak well of me untrue, Making no summer of another's green, My name be buried where my body is, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And live no more to shame nor me nor you. And him as for a map doth Nature store, For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, To show false Art what beauty was of yore. And so should you, to love things nothing worth., Sonnet LXXIII Sonnet LXXVII That time of year thou mayst in me behold Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. In me thou seest the twilight of such day The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show As after sunset fadeth in the west, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Which by and by black night doth take away, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. Time's thievish progress to eternity. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire Look, what thy memory can not contain That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find As the death-bed whereon it must expire Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. Sonnet LXXIV Sonnet LXXVIII But be contented: when that fell arrest So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse Without all bail shall carry me away, And found such fair assistance in my verse My life hath in this line some interest, As every alien pen hath got my use Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. And under thee their poesy disperse. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing The very part was consecrate to thee: And heavy ignorance aloft to fly The earth can have but earth, which is his due; Have added feathers to the learned's wing My spirit is thine, the better part of me: And given grace a double majesty. So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, Yet be most proud of that which I compile, The prey of worms, my body being dead, Whose influence is thine and born of thee: The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, In others' works thou dost but mend the style, Too base of thee to be remembered. And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; The worth of that is that which it contains, But thou art all my art and dost advance And that is this, and this with thee remains. As high as learning my rude ignorance. Sonnet LXXV Sonnet LXXIX So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, And for the peace of you I hold such strife But now my gracious numbers are decay'd As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found; And my sick Muse doth give another place. Now proud as an enjoyer and anon I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, Now counting best to be with you alone, Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure; He robs thee of and pays it thee again. Sometime all full with feasting on your sight He lends thee virtue and he stole that word And by and by clean starved for a look; From thy behavior; beauty doth he give Possessing or pursuing no delight, And found it in thy cheek; he can afford Save what is had or must from you be took. No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. Sonnet LXXVI Sonnet LXXX Why is my verse so barren of new pride, O, how I faint when I of you do write, So far from variation or quick change? Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, Why with the time do I not glance aside And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To new-found methods and to compounds strange? To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! Why write I still all one, ever the same, But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, And keep invention in a noted weed, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, That every word doth almost tell my name, My saucy bark inferior far to his Showing their birth and where they did proceed? On your broad main doth wilfully appear. O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, And you and love are still my argument; Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; So all my best is dressing old words new, Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat, Spending again what is already spent: He of tall building and of goodly pride: For as the sun is daily new and old, Then if he thrive and I be cast away, So is my love still telling what is told. The worst was this; my love was my decay., Sonnet LXXXI Sonnet LXXXV Or I shall live your epitaph to make, My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; While comments of your praise, richly compiled, From hence your memory death cannot take, Reserve their character with golden quill Although in me each part will be forgotten. And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen' The earth can yield me but a common grave, To every hymn that able spirit affords When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,' Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, And to the most of praise add something more; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse But that is in my thought, whose love to you, When all the breathers of this world are dead; Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. You still shall live-such virtue hath my pen- Then others for the breath of words respect, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. Sonnet LXXXII Sonnet LXXXVI I grant thou wert not married to my Muse Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook Bound for the prize of all too precious you, The dedicated words which writers use That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Of their fair subject, blessing every book Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? And therefore art enforced to seek anew No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days Giving him aid, my verse astonished. And do so, love; yet when they have devised He, nor that affable familiar ghost What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Which nightly gulls him with intelligence Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized As victors of my silence cannot boast; In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; I was not sick of any fear from thence: And their gross painting might be better used But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. Sonnet LXXXIII Sonnet LXXXVII I never saw that you did painting need Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And therefore to your fair no painting set; And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; The barren tender of a poet's debt; My bonds in thee are all determinate. And therefore have I slept in your report, For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? That you yourself being extant well might show And for that riches where is my deserving? How far a modern quill doth come too short, The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. And so my patent back again is swerving. This silence for my sin you did impute, Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking; For I impair not beauty being mute, So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, When others would give life and bring a tomb. Comes home again, on better judgment making. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, Than both your poets can in praise devise. In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. Sonnet LXXXIV Sonnet LXXXVIII Who is it that says most? which can say more When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, Than this rich praise, that you alone are you? And place my merit in the eye of scorn, In whose confine immured is the store Upon thy side against myself I'll fight, Which should example where your equal grew. And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell With mine own weakness being best acquainted, That to his subject lends not some small glory; Upon thy part I can set down a story But he that writes of you, if he can tell Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted, That you are you, so dignifies his story, That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: Let him but copy what in you is writ, And I by this will be a gainer too; Not making worse what nature made so clear, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, The injuries that to myself I do, Making his style admired every where. Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Such is my love, to thee I so belong, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. That for thy right myself will bear all wrong., Sonnet LXXXIX Sonnet XCIII Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, So shall I live, supposing thou art true, And I will comment upon that offence; Like a deceived husband; so love's face Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, May still seem love to me, though alter'd new; Against thy reasons making no defence. Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, For there can live no hatred in thine eye, To set a form upon desired change, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will, In many's looks the false heart's history I will acquaintance strangle and look strange, Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue But heaven in thy creation did decree Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. For thee against myself I'll vow debate, How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! Sonnet XC Sonnet XCIV Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; They that have power to hurt and will do none, Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, That do not do the thing they most do show, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow, They rightly do inherit heaven's graces Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; And husband nature's riches from expense; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, They are the lords and owners of their faces, To linger out a purposed overthrow. Others but stewards of their excellence. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, When other petty griefs have done their spite Though to itself it only live and die, But in the onset come; so shall I taste But if that flower with base infection meet, At first the very worst of fortune's might, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Sonnet XCI Sonnet XCV Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, That tongue that tells the story of thy days, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest: Making lascivious comments on thy sport, But these particulars are not my measure; Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise; All these I better in one general best. Naming thy name blesses an ill report. Thy love is better than high birth to me, O, what a mansion have those vices got Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Of more delight than hawks or horses be; Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: And all things turn to fair that eyes can see! Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; All this away and me most wretched make. The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. Sonnet XCII Sonnet XCVI But do thy worst to steal thyself away, Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; For term of life thou art assured mine, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; And life no longer than thy love will stay, Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; For it depends upon that love of thine. Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, As on the finger of a throned queen When in the least of them my life hath end. The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, I see a better state to me belongs So are those errors that in thee are seen Than that which on thy humour doth depend; To truths translated and for true things deem'd. Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, How many lambs might the stem wolf betray, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. If like a lamb he could his looks translate! O, what a happy title do I find, How many gazers mightst thou lead away, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? But do not so; I love thee in such sort Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report., Sonnet XCVII Sonnet CI How like a winter hath my absence been O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! Both truth and beauty on my love depends; What old December's bareness every where! So dost thou too, and therein dignified. And yet this time removed was summer's time, Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, 'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd; Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: But best is best, if never intermix'd?' Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, And, thou away, the very birds are mute; And to be praised of ages yet to be. Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. To make him seem long hence as he shows now. Sonnet XCVIII Sonnet CII From you have I been absent in the spring, My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim I love not less, though less the show appear: Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Our love was new and then but in the spring Of different flowers in odour and in hue When I was wont to greet it with my lays, Could make me any summer's story tell, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Not that the summer is less pleasant now Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, They were but sweet, but figures of delight, But that wild music burthens every bough Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue, As with your shadow I with these did play: Because I would not dull you with my song. Sonnet XCIX Sonnet CIII The forward violet thus did I chide: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, That having such a scope to show her pride, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride The argument all bare is of more worth Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells Than when it hath my added praise beside! In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. O, blame me not, if I no more can write! The lily I condemned for thy hand, Look in your glass, and there appears a face And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: That over-goes my blunt invention quite, The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. One blushing shame, another white despair; Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both To mar the subject that before was well? And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; For to no other pass my verses tend But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; A vengeful canker eat him up to death. And more, much more, than in my verse can sit More flowers I noted, yet I none could see Your own glass shows you when you look in it. But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. Sonnet C Sonnet CIV Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long To me, fair friend, you never can be old, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In gentle numbers time so idly spent; In process of the seasons have I seen, Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; Steal from his figure and no pace perceived; If any, be a satire to decay, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, And make Time's spoils despised every where. Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived: Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead., Sonnet CV Sonnet CVIII Let not my love be call'd idolatry, What's in the brain that ink may character Nor my beloved as an idol show, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? Since all alike my songs and praises be What's new to speak, what new to register, To one, of one, still such, and ever so. That may express my love or thy dear merit? Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; I must, each day say o'er the very same, Therefore my verse to constancy confined, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. 'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument, So that eternal love in love's fresh case 'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words; Weighs not the dust and injury of age, And in this change is my invention spent, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. But makes antiquity for aye his page, 'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone, Finding the first conceit of love there bred Which three till now never kept seat in one. Where time and outward form would show it dead. Sonnet CVI Sonnet CIX When in the chronicle of wasted time O, never say that I was false of heart, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify. And beauty making beautiful old rhyme As easy might I from myself depart In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, Like him that travels I return again, I see their antique pen would have express'd Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, Even such a beauty as you master now. So that myself bring water for my stain. So all their praises are but prophecies Never believe, though in my nature reign'd Of this our time, all you prefiguring; All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, That it could so preposterously be stain'd, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; For we, which now behold these present days, For nothing this wide universe I call, Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. Sonnet CVI Sonnet CX When in the chronicle of wasted time Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And made myself a motley to the view, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Made old offences of affections new; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Most true it is that I have look'd on truth Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, Askance and strangely: but, by all above, I see their antique pen would have express'd These blenches gave my heart another youth, Even such a beauty as you master now. And worse essays proved thee my best of love. So all their praises are but prophecies Now all is done, have what shall have no end: Of this our time, all you prefiguring; Mine appetite I never more will grind And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, On newer proof, to try an older friend, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: A god in love, to whom I am confined. For we, which now behold these present days, Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. Sonnet CVII Sonnet CXI Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, Can yet the lease of my true love control, That did not better for my life provide Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. Than public means which public manners breeds. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; And almost thence my nature is subdued Incertainties now crown themselves assured To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Pity me then and wish I were renew'd; Now with the drops of this most balmy time Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, No bitterness that I will bitter think, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: Nor double penance, to correct correction. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. Even that your pity is enough to cure me., Sonnet CXII Sonnet CXVI Your love and pity doth the impression fill Let me not to the marriage of true minds Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; Admit impediments. Love is not love For what care I who calls me well or ill, Which alters when it alteration finds, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? Or bends with the remover to remove: You are my all the world, and I must strive O no! it is an ever-fixed mark To know my shames and praises from your tongue: That looks on tempests and is never shaken; None else to me, nor I to none alive, It is the star to every wandering bark, That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. In so profound abysm I throw all care Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Of others' voices, that my adder's sense Within his bending sickle's compass come: To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, Mark how with my neglect I do dispense: But bears it out even to the edge of doom. You are so strongly in my purpose bred If this be error and upon me proved, That all the world besides methinks are dead. I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Sonnet CXIII Sonnet CXVII Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all And that which governs me to go about Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Doth part his function and is partly blind, Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Seems seeing, but effectually is out; Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; For it no form delivers to the heart That I have frequent been with unknown minds Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch: And given to time your own dear-purchased right Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: Which should transport me farthest from your sight. For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight, Book both my wilfulness and errors down The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, And on just proof surmise accumulate; The mountain or the sea, the day or night, Bring me within the level of your frown, The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature: But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate; Incapable of more, replete with you, Since my appeal says I did strive to prove My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue. The constancy and virtue of your love. Sonnet CXIV Sonnet CXVIII Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Like as, to make our appetites more keen, Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery? With eager compounds we our palate urge, Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, As, to prevent our maladies unseen, And that your love taught it this alchemy, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge, To make of monsters and things indigest Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding Creating every bad a perfect best, And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness As fast as objects to his beams assemble? To be diseased ere that there was true needing. O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing, Thus policy in love, to anticipate And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: The ills that were not, grew to faults assured Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And brought to medicine a healthful state And to his palate doth prepare the cup: Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured: If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. Sonnet CXV Sonnet CXIX Those lines that I before have writ do lie, What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Even those that said I could not love you dearer: Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, Yet then my judgment knew no reason why Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. Still losing when I saw myself to win! But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; In the distraction of this madding fever! Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny, O benefit of ill! now I find true Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,' That better is by evil still made better; When I was certain o'er incertainty, And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. Love is a babe; then might I not say so, So I return rebuked to my content To give full growth to that which still doth grow? And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent., Sonnet CXX Sonnet CXXIV That you were once unkind befriends me now, If my dear love were but the child of state, And for that sorrow which I then did feel It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd' Needs must I under my transgression bow, As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. For if you were by my unkindness shaken No, it was builded far from accident; As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken Under the blow of thralled discontent, To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls: O, that our night of woe might have remember'd It fears not policy, that heretic, My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd But all alone stands hugely politic, The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits! That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers. But that your trespass now becomes a fee; To this I witness call the fools of time, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. Sonnet CXXI Sonnet CXXV 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy, When not to be receives reproach of being, With my extern the outward honouring, And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd Or laid great bases for eternity, Not by our feeling but by others' seeing: Which prove more short than waste or ruining? For why should others false adulterate eyes Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Give salutation to my sportive blood? Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, For compound sweet forgoing simple savour, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? No, I am that I am, and they that level No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, At my abuses reckon up their own: And take thou my oblation, poor but free, I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel; Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; But mutual render, only me for thee. Unless this general evil they maintain, Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul All men are bad, and in their badness reign. When most impeach'd stands least in thy control. Sonnet CXXII Sonnet CXXVI Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Full character'd with lasting memory, Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Which shall above that idle rank remain Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Beyond all date, even to eternity; Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st; Or at the least, so long as brain and heart If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, Have faculty by nature to subsist; As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, Till each to razed oblivion yield his part She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. That poor retention could not so much hold, Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure! Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score; She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: Therefore to give them from me was I bold, Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, To trust those tables that receive thee more: And her quietus is to render thee. To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me. Sonnet CXXIII Sonnet CXXVII No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: In the old age black was not counted fair, Thy pyramids built up with newer might Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; But now is black beauty's successive heir, They are but dressings of a former sight. And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame: Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire For since each hand hath put on nature's power, What thou dost foist upon us that is old, Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, And rather make them born to our desire Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, Than think that we before have heard them told. But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black, Not wondering at the present nor the past, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem For thy records and what we see doth lie, At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Made more or less by thy continual haste. Slandering creation with a false esteem: This I do vow and this shall ever be; Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. That every tongue says beauty should look so., Sonnet CXXVIII Sonnet CXXXII How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st Have put on black and loving mourners be, The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap And truly not the morning sun of heaven To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, Nor that full star that ushers in the even At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! Doth half that glory to the sober west, To be so tickled, they would change their state As those two mourning eyes become thy face: And situation with those dancing chips, O, let it then as well beseem thy heart O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Making dead wood more blest than living lips. And suit thy pity like in every part. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Then will I swear beauty herself is black Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. And all they foul that thy complexion lack. Sonnet CXXIX Sonnet CXXXIII The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan Is lust in action; and till action, lust For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Is't not enough to torture me alone, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had And my next self thou harder hast engross'd: Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken; On purpose laid to make the taker mad; A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd. Mad in pursuit and in possession so; Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol: All this the world well knows; yet none knows well And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. Sonnet CXXX Sonnet CXXXIV My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; So, now I have confess'd that he is thine, Coral is far more red than her lips' red; And I myself am mortgaged to thy will, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still: I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; For thou art covetous and he is kind; And in some perfumes is there more delight He learn'd but surety-like to write for me Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, That music hath a far more pleasing sound; Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use, I grant I never saw a goddess go; And sue a friend came debtor for my sake; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: So him I lose through my unkind abuse. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me: As any she belied with false compare. He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. Sonnet CXXXI Sonnet CXXXV Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,' As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart More than enough am I that vex thee still, Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. To thy sweet will making addition thus. Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan: Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? To say they err I dare not be so bold, Shall will in others seem right gracious, Although I swear it to myself alone. And in my will no fair acceptance shine? And, to be sure that is not false I swear, The sea all water, yet receives rain still A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, And in abundance addeth to his store; One on another's neck, do witness bear So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will' Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.', Sonnet CXXXVI Sonnet CXL If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near, Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,' My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Lest sorrow lend me words and words express Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. The manner of my pity-wanting pain. 'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love, If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so; In things of great receipt with ease we prove As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, Among a number one is reckon'd none: No news but health from their physicians know; Then in the number let me pass untold, For if I should despair, I should grow mad, Though in thy stores' account I one must be; And in my madness might speak ill of thee: For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be, Make but my name thy love, and love that still, That I may not be so, nor thou belied, And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.' Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. Sonnet CXXXVII Sonnet CXLI Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see? For they in thee a thousand errors note; They know what beauty is, see where it lies, But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Yet what the best is take the worst to be. Who in despite of view is pleased to dote; If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? To any sensual feast with thee alone: Why should my heart think that a several plot But my five wits nor my five senses can Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not, Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, To put fair truth upon so foul a face? Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be: In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, Only my plague thus far I count my gain, And to this false plague are they now transferr'd. That she that makes me sin awards me pain. Sonnet CXXXVIII Sonnet CXLII When my love swears that she is made of truth Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate, I do believe her, though I know she lies, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: That she might think me some untutor'd youth, O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, Although she knows my days are past the best, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments Simply I credit her false speaking tongue: And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those And wherefore say not I that I am old? Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows And age in love loves not to have years told: Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. By self-example mayst thou be denied! Sonnet CXXXIX Sonnet CXLIII O, call not me to justify the wrong Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; One of her feather'd creatures broke away, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue; Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch Use power with power and slay me not by art. In pursuit of the thing she would have stay, Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight, Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might To follow that which flies before her face, Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide? Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; And therefore from my face she turns my foes, But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind: Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,' Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain. If thou turn back, and my loud crying still., Sonnet CXLIV Sonnet CXLVIII Two loves I have of comfort and despair, O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: Which have no correspondence with true sight! The better angel is a man right fair, Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. That censures falsely what they see aright? To win me soon to hell, my female evil If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, Tempteth my better angel from my side, What means the world to say it is not so? And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, If it be not, then love doth well denote Wooing his purity with her foul pride. Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.' And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true, Suspect I may, but not directly tell; That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? But being both from me, both to each friend, No marvel then, though I mistake my view; I guess one angel in another's hell: The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind, Till my bad angel fire my good one out. Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. Sonnet CXLV Sonnet CXLIX Those lips that Love's own hand did make Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate' When I against myself with thee partake? To me that languish'd for her sake; Do I not think on thee, when I forgot But when she saw my woeful state, Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake? Straight in her heart did mercy come, Who hateth thee that I do call my friend? Chiding that tongue that ever sweet On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon? Was used in giving gentle doom, Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend And taught it thus anew to greet: Revenge upon myself with present moan? 'I hate' she alter'd with an end, What merit do I in myself respect, That follow'd it as gentle day That is so proud thy service to despise, Doth follow night, who like a fiend When all my best doth worship thy defect, From heaven to hell is flown away; Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? 'I hate' from hate away she threw, But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind; And saved my life, saying 'not you.' Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. Sonnet CXLVI Sonnet CL Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, O, from what power hast thou this powerful might [ ] these rebel powers that thee array; With insufficiency my heart to sway? Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, To make me give the lie to my true sight, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? That in the very refuse of thy deeds Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, There is such strength and warrantize of skill Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds? Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, Who taught thee how to make me love thee more And let that pine to aggravate thy store; The more I hear and see just cause of hate? Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; O, though I love what others do abhor, Within be fed, without be rich no more: With others thou shouldst not abhor my state: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, If thy unworthiness raised love in me, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. More worthy I to be beloved of thee. Sonnet CXLVII Sonnet CLI My love is as a fever, longing still Love is too young to know what conscience is; For that which longer nurseth the disease, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: My reason, the physician to my love, For, thou betraying me, I do betray Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, My nobler part to my gross body's treason; Hath left me, and I desperate now approve My soul doth tell my body that he may Desire is death, which physic did except. Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason; Past cure I am, now reason is past care, But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, At random from the truth vainly express'd; To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, No want of conscience hold it that I call Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall., Sonnet CLII In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing. But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most; For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee And all my honest faith in thee is lost, For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see; For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie! Sonnet CLIII Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep: A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground; Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love A dateless lively heat, still to endure, And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest, But found no cure: the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire-my mistress' eyes. Sonnet CLIV The little Love-god lying once asleep Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd; And so the general of hot desire Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.]

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