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SONNET XX. But wherefore do not you a mightier way A woman's face, with Nature's own hand painted, Make war upon this bloody tyran, Time? Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; And fortify yourself in your decay

A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? With shifting change, as is false women's fashion ; Nox stand you on the top of happy hours; An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, And many maiden gardens yet upset,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, [eth. Much liker than your painted counterfeit: Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazSo should the lines of life that life repair,

And for a woman wert thou first created; Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, Neither in joward worth, nor outward fair,

And by addition me of thee defeated, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still; But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.


We will believe my verse in time to come, So is it not with me as with that Muse,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts ? Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse ;
Though yet Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Who Heaven itself for ornament doth use,
Which hides your life, and shows not balf your parts. And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

Making a couplement of proud compare,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

With Sun and Moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, The age to come would say, “this poet lies, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces." That Heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, O let me, true in love, but truly write, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue; And then believe me, my love is as fair And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage, As any mother's child, though not so bright And stretched metre of an antique song:

As those gold candles fix'd in Heaven's air: But were some child of yours alive that time, Let them say more that like of hearsay well; You should live twice;-in it, and in my rhyme. I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.


SONNET XXII. SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Thou art more lovely and more temperate: So long as youth and thou are of one date; Rough winds do shake the darling bads of May, But when in thee time's furrows I behold, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Then look I death my days should expiate. Sometime too hot the eye of Heaven shines, For all that beauty that doth cover thee, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; Is but the seemly raiment of my beart, And every fair from fair sometime declines, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; How can I then be elder than thou art? But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; As I not for myself, but for thee will; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary When in eternal lines to time thou growest: As tender ourse her babe from faring ill. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, Presume not on thy heart wheu mine is slain; So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.


SONNET XXIII. DEVOURING Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, As an imperfect actor on the stage, And made the Earth devour her own sweet brood; Who with his fear is put beside his part, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, And barn the long-liv'd phenix in her blood; Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, So I, for fear of trust, forget to say And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ; And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, O let my books be then the eloquence Nor draw po lines there with thine antiqne pen; And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; Him in thy course untainted do allow,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

More than that tongue that more hath more exYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Olearn to read what silent love hath writ: (pressid. My love shall in my verse ever live young. To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


SONNET XXVIIT. Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and bath steel'd How can I then return in happy plight, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? My body is the frame wherein 't is held,

When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
And perspective it is best painter's art.

But day by night and night by day oppress'd ?
For through the painter must you see his skill, And each, though enemies to either's reign,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
Which in my bosom's shop is banging still, The one by toil, the other to complain
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. How far I toil, still further off from thee.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done; I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me And dost him grace when clouds do blot the Hea-
Are windows to niy breast, where-through the Sun So fatter I the swart-complexion'd night; (ven:
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart. And night doth nightly make griefs length seem


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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 foild,
Is from the book of honour rased quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

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 myself 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.

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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
To thee I send this written embassage,

I summon up remembrance of things past, To witness duty, not to show my wit.

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: And weep afresh love's long-since cancel'd woe,
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,

Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving.

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect :

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Which I new pay as if not pay'd before.
Till then, not show my head where thou may'st But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
prove me,

All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.


SONNET XXXI. Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

THy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; Which I by lacking have supposed dead';
But then begins a journey in my head,

And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
To work my mind, when body's work 's expired: And all those friends which I thought buried.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) How many a holy and obsequious tear
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, As interest of the dead, which now appear
Looking on darkness which the blind do see. But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie !
Save that my soul's imaginary sight

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
Makes black night beauteons, and her old face new. That due of many now is thine alone:
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.


SONNET XXXVI. Is thou survive my well-contented day,

Let me confess that we two must be twain, When that.churl Death my bones with dust shall although our undivided loves are one: And shalt by fortune once more re-survey (cover, So shall those blots that do with me remain, These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. Compare them with the bettering of the time; In our two loves there is but one respect, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

Though in our lives a separable spite, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Exceeded by the height of happier men.

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought! I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame; A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

Nor thou with public kindness honour me, To marih in ranks of better equipage:

Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But since he died, and poets better prove,

But do not so; I love thee in such sort, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love. As thou being mine, mine is thy good report,


SONNET XXXVII. Full many a glorious morning have I seen As a decrepit father takes delight Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, To see his active child do deeds of youth, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy; Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth; Awon permit the basest clouds to ride

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, With ugly rack on his celestial face,

Or any of these all, or all, or more, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: I make my love engrafted to this store: Even so my Sun one early morn did shine, So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; Whilst that tbis shadow doth such substance give, But out! alack ! he was but one hour mine, That I in thy abundance am suffic'd, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. And by a part of all thy glory live. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Look what is best, that best I wish in thee; Suns of the world may stain, when Heaven's Sun This wish I have; then ten times happy me!


Wwe didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

How can my Muse want subject to invent,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

For every vulgar paper to rehearse ?
Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, on, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

Worthy perusal, stand against thy sight,

For who 's so dumb that cannot write to thee, For do man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:

When thou thyself dost give invention light? Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine, which rhymers invocate; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief

And be that calls on thee, let him bring forth To him that bears the strong offence's cross.

Eternal numbers to out-live long date. Ab! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, The paiu be mine, but

thine shall be the praise.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.


SONNET XXXIX. No more be grier'd at that which thou hast done : 0 How thy worth with manners may I sing, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; When thou art all the better part of me? Clouds and eclipses stain both Moon and Sun, What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. And what is 't but mine own, when I praise thee? All men make faults, and even I in this,

Even for this let us divided live, Authorizing thy trespass with compare,

And our dear love lose name of single one, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

That by this separation I may give Escusing thy sins more than thy sins are:

That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone. For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,

O absence, what a torment would'st thou prove, (Thy adverse party is thy advocate)

Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Soch civil war is in my love and hate,

(Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive) That I an accessary needs must be

And that thou teachest how to make one twain, To that sweet thief, which sourly robs from me. By praising him here, who doth hence remain.


SONNET XLIV. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? Injurious distance should not stop my way; No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call; For then, despite of space, I would be brought All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Prom limits far remote, where thou dost stay. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, No matter then, although my foot did stand I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; Upon the furthest earth remov'd from thee, But yet be blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

As soon as think the place where he would be. I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

But ah! thought kills me, that I am not thought, Although thou steal thee all my poverty ;

To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, And yet love knows, it is a greater grief

But that, so much of earth and water wrought, To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. I must attend time's leisure with my moan; Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Receiving nought by elements so slow Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes. But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.


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 wooes, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd ?
Ah me! but yet thou might'st, my sweet, forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forc'd to break a two-fold truth ;
Her's, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

Tue 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 recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight go sad.

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:-
Tbou 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.

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 'cide 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.


SONNET XLVII. When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, BETWIXT mine eye and heart a league is took, For all the day they view things unrespected ; And each doth good turns now unto the other : But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, How would thy shadow's form form happy show And to the painted banquet bids my heart: To the clear day with thy much clearer light, Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so? And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made So, either by thy picture or my love, By looking on thee in the living day,

Thyself away art present still with me; When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade For thou not further than my thoughts canst move, Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay? And I am still with them, and they with thee; All days are nights to see, till I see thee, [me. Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight And nights, bright days, when dreams do show thee Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.


SONNET LIL. Ho# careful was I when I took my way,

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, That, to my use, it might unused stay

The which he will not every hour survey, From bands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! For bluriting the fine point of seldom pleasure. But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,

Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Thua, best of dearest, and mine only care, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Ant left the prey of every vulgar thief.

Or captain jewels in the carcanet. Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,

So is the time that keeps you, as my chest, Sare where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, Within the gentle closure of my breast,

To make some special instant special-bless'd, From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part; By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. And ero thence thou wilt be stolen I fear, Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.


AGAINST that time, if ever that time come, What is your substance, whereof are you made,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects, That millions of strange shaduws on you tend ?
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects,

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass, Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, Is poorly imitated after you;
When love, converted from the thing it was, On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity,

And you in Grecian tires are painted new :
Against that time do I ensconce me here

Speak of the spring, and foizon of the year' ; Within the knowledge of mine own desert, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, And this my hand against myself uprear,

The other as your bounty doth appear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:

And you in every blessed shape we know. To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, In all external grace you have some part, Soce, why to love, I can allege no cause.

But you like none, none you, for constant heart.


SONNET LIV. How beavy do I journey on the way,

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seen, When what I seek,--my weary travel's end,

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem " Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend !" For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye Plods dally on, to bear that weight in me,

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, As if by some instinct the wretch did know

Hang oo such thorns, and play as wantonly His rider lor'd not speed, being made from thee: When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

But, for their virtue only is their show, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Which heavily he answers with a groan,

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : For that same groan doth put this in my mind, And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.


SONNET LV. Tuus can my love excuse the slow offence Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed; Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; From where thou art why should I haste me thence? But you shall shine more bright in these contents Till I return, of posting is no need.

Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 0, what exeuse will my poor beast then find, When wasteful war shall statues overturn, When swift extremity can seem but slow ?

And broils root out the works of masonry, Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind; Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn In ringed speed no motion shall I know :

The living record of your memory. Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;

'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Therefore desire, of perfect love being made, Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room, Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fi'ry race ; Even in the eyes of all posterity But lore, for love, thus shall excuse my jade ; That wear this world out to the ending doom. Since from thee going he went wilful slow,

So till the judgment that yourself arise, Towards thee I 'll run, and give him leave to go.

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. VOL V.


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