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