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Sonnets
THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare
I
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.
II
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.
III
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.
IV
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.
V
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.
VI
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou
be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With
beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd. 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.
VII
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.
VIII
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.'
IX
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.
X
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.
XI
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.
XII
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.
XIII
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.
XIV
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.'
XV
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.
XVI
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.
XVII
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.
XVIII
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.
XIX
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.
XX
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.
XXI
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.
XXII
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 th;heart when mine is
slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
XXIII
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.
XXIV
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.
XXV
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.
XXVI
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.
XXVII
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.