 Part one of Shakespeare's Sonnets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. The Sonnets by William Shakespeare. Part one. Sonnets one to ten. One. From fairest creatures we desire increase, that thereby beauty's rose might never die. But as the riper should by time to cease, his tender air might bear his memory. But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, feats thy lights' 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, baryest thy content, and tender churl makes waste in niggerding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world's dew by the grave and thee. Two. 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 tattered 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 deserved thy beauty's use, if thou couldst answer, this fair child of mine shall some 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 feelst it cold. Three. 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 uneared 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, remembered not to be, die single, and thine image dies with thee. Four. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's request gives nothing, but doth lend, and, being frank, she lends to those are free. Then beauty is niggered, why dost thou abuse the bounteous largesse given thee to give? Profitless userer, why dost thou use so great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thyself alone, thou of thyself 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 the executor to be. Five. 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 or snowed and bareness everywhere. 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 distilled, though they with winter meet, lease but their show, their substance still lives sweet. Six. Then let not winter's ragged hand to face, in thee thy summer ere thou be distilled. Make sweet some vile, treasure thou some place with beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed. That use is not forbidden usury, which hapies 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 refigured thee. Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair to be death's conquest and make worms thine ere. Seven. Low 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 climbed 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 releth from the day, the eyes for dubious now converted are from his low tract, and look another way. So thou, thy self outgoing in thy noon, unlooked on dyest, and less thou get a son. Eight. Music to hear. Why hearst thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy, delights, and joy. Why loves thou that which thou receiv'dt not gladly, or else receiv'dt's 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 should spare. 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. Nine. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, that thou consumes thyself in single life? Ah, if thou issueless shalt have 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 towards others in that bosom sits, that on himself such murderous shame commits. Ten. For shame, deny that thou bearst love to any, who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt thou art beloved of many, but that thou none lovest is most evident. For thou art so possessed with murderous hate, that gaint thyself thou sticks not to conspire. Seeking that beautyous 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, lodged, 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. End of Part One. Part Two of Shakespeare's Sonnets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. The Sonnets, by William Shakespeare. Part Two. Sonnets XI to XXXXXXXXXXX. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest, in one of thine from that which thou departest, and that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest, 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 three-score 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 endowed, she gave thee more, which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish. She carved 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 summers green all girded up in sheaves, borne on the beer with white and bristly beard. Then of thy beauty do I quest and make, that thou among the wastes of time must go, hence sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, and die as fast as they see others grow. And nothing against times scythe can make defence save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. XIII. O, that you were yourself, but love you are no longer yours, than you yourself here 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 and 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 judgment pluck, and yet me thinks 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 wits to convert, or else of thee this I prognosticate, thy end is truths and beauties doom and date. XV. When I consider everything that grows holds in perfection but a little moment, that this huge stage presenteth not 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, their wasteful time debateth with decay to change your date 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 yourself 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 likeer than your painted counterfeit. So should the lines of life that life repair, which this, time's pencil, or my pupil-pen, neither an inward worth nor outward fare, can make you live yourself 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 filled with your most high deserts? So 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 nair touched earthly faces. So should my papers yellowed with their age be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue, and your true rites be termed a poet's rage and stretched meter 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. Off 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 dimmed, and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou o'est. Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest. 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-lived phoenix in her blood. Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, and do what ere 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 enrolling, 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 were thou first created, till nature, as she wrought thee, fell adoting, and by addition me of thee defeated, by adding one thing to my purpose, nothing. But, since she pricked 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, stirred 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 seas rich gems, with April's firstborn flowers, and all things rare, that heaven's air in this huge ronjer hems. Oh, let me, true in love, but truly right, and then believe me, my love is as fair as any mother's child, though not so bright as those gold candles fixed in heaven's air. Let them say more that like of here say 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 times 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? Oh, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, as I, not for myself, but for thee will, bearing thy heart which I will keep so cherry, as tender nurse her babe from fairing ill. Presume not on thy heart one minus slain, thou gavest 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 right, and in mine own love's strength seem to decay, or charged with burden of mine own love's might. Oh, let my looks be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast, who plead for love and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more expressed. Oh, learn to read what silent love hath writ, to hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. XXIV. My eye hath played the painter, and hath stelled thy beauty's form in table of my heart. My body as the frame were in 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 pictured lies, which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, that hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turn's eyes for eyes hath done. Mine eyes hath 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, unlooked for joy in that I honour most. Great princes favourits 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 famous for fight, after a thousand victories once foiled, is from the book of honour razed quite, and all the rest forgot for which he toiled. Then happy I, that love and am beloved, where I may not remove, nor be removed. XXVI. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, to thee I send this written embosage, 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 and 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 a peril on my tattered 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 repose for limbs with travel tired, and then begins a journey in my head, to work my mind when body's works 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 beautyous, and her old face new. Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee and for myself, no quiet find. XXVIII. How can I then return in happy plight, that am debarred the benefit of rest, when day's oppression is not eased by night, but day by night and night by day oppressed? 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 dust him grace when clouds do blot the heaven. So flatter I the wart-complexioned night, when sparkling stars twire not thou guilds the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, and night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. XXIX. 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, featured like him, like him with friends possessed, desiring this man's art and that man's scope, with what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, happily 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 remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings. XXXIII. Then 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 knew 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 cancelled woe, and moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances for gone, and heavily from woe to woe tell o'er the sad account of four b'monid moan, which I knew pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored, and sorrows end. Love 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 stolen from mine eye, has interest of the dead which now appear but things removed 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 dew of many now is thine alone. Their images I loved, I view in thee, and thou all they hast all the all of me. If thou survive my well-contented day, when that churled death my bones with dust shall cover, and shout by fortune once more resurvey these poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, compare them with the bettering of the time, and though they be outstripped by every pen, reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafed 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, as for their style I'll read, his for his love. 33. Full many a glorious morning have I seen, flatter the mountaintops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. A non-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 son, one early morn did shine, with all triumphant splendour on my brow. But out, a lack, he was but one hour mine, the region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no wit disdaineth, sons of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. 34. Why didst thou promise such a beautiest day, and make me travel forth without my cloak, to let base clouds, or take me in my way, hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? It is 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 physics 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. 35. No more be grieved 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 against myself a lawful plea commands. Blot civil war is in my love and hate, that I in accessory needs must be, to that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. 36. 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 born alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, though in our lives a separable spite, which though it alter not loves soul 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. 37. 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 despised, whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, that I in thy abundance am sufficed, and by a part of all thy glory live. Look what is best, the best I wish in thee, this wish I have, then ten times happy me. 38. How can my muse want subject to invent, while thou dost breathe, that porst into my verse thine own sweet argument, too excellent for every vulgar paper to rehearse? So give thyself the thanks, if art and me worthy perusals stand against thy sight. For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, when thou thyself 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. 39. O how thy worth with manners may I sing, when thou art all the better part of me! What can my own praise to my own self bring? And what is't but mine own when I praise thee? And 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 deserves to loan. O absence, what a torment would 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, that thou teachest how to make one twain, by praising him here, who doth hence remain. 40. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all. What hast thou then more than thou hath'd before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call. All mine was thine before thou hath'd this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest. But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest, by willful taste of what thyself refuses. 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 loves wrong, than hates known injury. The civius grace, in whom all ill well shows, kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. 41. Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, when I am some time absent from thy heart, thy beauty and thy years full well befits, for still temptation follows where thou art. All thou art, and therefore to be one, beauty is thou art, and therefore to be assailed. And when a woman woos, what a woman's son will sourly leave her till he hath prevailed. I 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. 42. 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. Having offenders thus I will excuse ye, thou dost love her, because thou knowest 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. 43. 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 shadows, shadows doth make bright, how would thy shadows 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. 44. 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 removed 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, times leisure with my moan, receiving not by elements so slow, but heavy tears, badges of either's woe. 45. 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, oppressed with melancholy. Until life's composition be recurred by those swift messengers returned 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 grow sad. 46. 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 pierced with crystal eyes. But the defendant doth that plead nigh, and says in him thy fair appearance lies. To side this title is impaneled a quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, and by their verdict is determined the clear eyes, moiety, and the dear heart's part. As thus, mine eye's dew is thy outward part, and my heart's right, thy inward love of heart. 47. Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, and each doth good turns now unto the other. Then that mine eye is famished for a look, or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, with my love's picture than 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 apart. 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 hearts and eyes delight. 48. 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, insure 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, are left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not locked 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 mayest come and part. And even thence thou wilt be stolen, I fear, for truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. 49. 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, called to that audit by advised respects, against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, and scarcely greet me with that sun, thine I, 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 my own dessert. 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. 50. 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 loved 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. End of Part 5. Part 6 of Shakespeare's Sonnets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. The Sonnets. By William Shakespeare. Part 6. Sonnets 51-60. 51. 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. Oh, 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 perfectest love being made, shall nay no dull flesh in his fiery race, but love for love thus shall excuse my jade. Since from thee going he went willful slow, towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. 52. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key can bring him to his sweet, uplocked treasure, the which he will not every hour survey, for blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore our feasts so solemn and so rare, since seldom coming in that long year set, like stones of worth they thinly place it are, or captain jewels in the carkinet. 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 blessed, by new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, being had no triumph, being lacked, to hope. 53. What is your substance, whereof are you made, that millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one, half 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. Seek of the spring, and foisen 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. 54. Oh! how much more doth beauty, beautyous seam, 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 basket buds discloses. And they, for their virtue only is their show, they live unwood, and unrespected fade, dye to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beautyous and lovely youth, when that shall vade by verse distills your truth. 55. 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 besmeared 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. Just 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 lover's eyes. 56. Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said thy edge should blunter be than appetite. Which but to-day by feeding is a-laid, to-morrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although to-day thou fill thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fullness. To-morrow see again, and do not kill the spirit of love with perpetual dullness. 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 blessed may be the view. Or call it winter, which being full of care makes summers welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. 57. 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 not 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. 58. 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. Oh, let me suffer being at your beck, the imprisoned absence of your liberty, and patience tamed to sufferance bide each check, without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong, that you yourself may privilege your time to what you will, to you it doth belong, your self to pardon of self-doting crime. I am to wait, though waiting so behel, not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. 59. If there be nothing new, but that which is hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, which laboring for invention bear amiss the second burden of a former child? Oh, 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. Whether we are mended, or where better they, or whether revolution be the same, oh, sure I am the wits of former days, to subjects worse have given admiring praise. 60. 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 mane of light crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned crooked eclipses against 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. Part 7 of Shakespeare's Sonnets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. The Sonnets by William Shakespeare. Part 7. Sonnets 61-70. 61. 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 sends'd 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? Oh no! Thy love, though much, is not so great. It is my love that keeps my eyes 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. 62. 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. Me thinks 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 worth surmount. But when my glass shows me myself, indeed, beaded and chopped 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. 63. Against my love shall be as I am now, with time's injurious hand crushed and or worn, when hours have drained his blood and filled his brow with lines and wrinkles, when his youthful mourn hath travelled on to ages 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 ages 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. 64. When I have seen by times fell hand defaced the rich proud cost of outworn buried age, when some time lofty towers I see downraised, 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. 65. Since brass nor stone nor earth nor boundless sea, but sad mortality or sways their power, how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower? Oh, 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? Oh, fearful meditation, where a lack 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? Oh, none, unless this miracle have might, that in black ink my love may still shine bright. 66. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, as to behold desert a beggar borne, and needy nothing trimmed in jollity, and purest faith unhappily foresworn, and gilded honour shamefully misplaced, and maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, and right perfection wrongfully disgraced, and strength by limping sway disabled, and art made tongue-tied by authority, and folly doctor-like controlling skill, and simple truth miscalled simplicity, and captive good attending captain ill. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone. Save that to die I leave my love alone. 67. 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 you? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, beggard of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no ex-checker now but his, and proud of many lives upon his gains. Oh, him she stores to show what wealth she had in days long since, before these last so bad. 68. 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 rite 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. 69. 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 dew, uttering bare truth even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned. But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, in other accents do this praise confound by seeing farther than the eye has shone. They look into the beauty of thy mind, and that in guess they measured 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 odor matcheth not thy show? The soil is this. That thou dust common grow. 70. That thou art blamed 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 wooed of time. For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, and thou presents'd a pure, unstain'd prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days, either not assailed, or victor being charged. Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, to tie up envy ever more enlarged. If some suspect of ill must not thy show, then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. End of Part 7. Part 8 of Shakespeare's Sonnets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Clutt. The Sonnets by William Shakespeare. Part 8. Sonnets 71 to 80. 71. No longer mourn for me when I am dead. Then 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 and your sweet thoughts would be forgot. If thinking on me, then, should make you woe. Oh, 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. 72. Oh, 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 dessert, and hang more praise upon deceasid eye, than niggered truth would willingly impart. Oh, lest your true love may seem false in this, that you for loves 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. 73. That time of year thou mayest in me behold, when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bear-ruined choirs, where late the sweet bird sang. In me thou ceased the twilight of such day, as after sunset fadeeth 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 ceased the glowing of such fire, that on the ashes of his youth doth lie, as the death-bed whereon it must expire, consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long. 74. But be contented, when that fell arrest, without all bail shall carry me away, my life hath in this line some interest, which for memorials 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 wretches' 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. 75. So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground, and for the peace of you I hold such strife as Twix de Meiser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and non-doubting the Filching Age will steal his treasure, now counting best to be with you alone, then bettered that the world may see my pleasure, some time 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 betook. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, or gluttoning on all, or all away. 76. 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 newfound methods, and to compound 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? Oh, no, 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. 77. 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 dials shady stealth maced no time's thievish progress to eternity. Look, what thy memory cannot contain, commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find those children nursed delivered 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. 78. 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. In 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 dust but mend the style, and arts with thy sweet graces grace it be. But thou art all my art, and dust advance as high as learning my rude ignorance. 79. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, my verse alone had all thy gentle grace. But now my gracious numbers are decayed, 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 robbs 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? And thank him not for that which he doth say. Since what he owes thee, thou thyself doth pay. 80. Oh! 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 willfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride. Or being wracked I am a worthless boat, he of tall building and of goodly pride. And if he thrive, and I be cast away, the worst was this, my love was my decay. 81. Or I shall live your epitaph to make, or you survive when I and 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 in tumid 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. 82. I grant thou were not married to my muse, and therefore mayest without a taint or look 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 devised what strained touches rhetoric can lend, thou truly fair were't truly sympathised in true plain words by thy true-telling friend, and their gross painting might be better used where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused. 83. 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. 84. 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 everywhere. You to your beautyous blessings add a curse, being fond on praise which makes your praises worse. 85. My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, while comments of your praise richly compiled, reserve their character with golden quill, and precious phrase by all the muses filed. I think good thoughts whilst others write good words, and like unlettered clerk still cry amen to every hymn that Abel's spirit affords, in polished form of well-refined pen. When 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. 86. Was it the proud full sale of his great verse, bound for the prize of all too precious you, that did my ripe thoughts in my brain in hearse, 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 come peers 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 filled up his line, then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine. 87. Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing, and, like enough, thou knowest 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. Thyself thou gavest thy own worth then not knowing, or me to whom thou gavest it else mistaking. So thy great gift upon Miss Prisian growing comes home again on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, in sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 88. Then thou shalt be disposed 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 my own weakness being best acquainted, upon thy part I can set down a story of faults concealed wherein I am attained. That thou in losing me shalt win much glory, and I by this will be a gainer too. Forbending 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. 89. 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. Last I too much profane should do it wrong, and happily of our old quaintance tell. For thee against myself I'll vow debate, for I must ne'er love him, whom thou dost hate. 90. 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 afterloss. Ha! do not, when my heart hath escaped this sorrow, come in the rearward of a conquered woe. Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, to linger out a purpose 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, compared with the loss of thee, will not seem so. END OF PART NINE Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, some in their wealth, some in their body's force, some in their garments, though newfangled 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 wretched 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. Oh, 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. Ninety-three So shall I live, supposing thou art true, like a deceived husband, so love's face may still seem love to me, though altered 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 written moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree, that in thy face sweet love should ever dwell. What ere thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. Thou, like eaves, apple doth thy beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show. Ninety-four 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 too 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. Ninety-five 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. Oh, 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. Oh, what a mansion have those vices got, which for their habitation chose out thee, where beauties veil doth cover every blot, and all things turn to fare that eyes can see. Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege. The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. Ninety-six Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness. Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport. Both grace and faults are loved of more and less. Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a thrown-in queen, the basest jewel will be well esteemed. So are those errors that in thee are seen to truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray? If like a lamb he could his looks translate? How many gazers might thou lead away, if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state? But do not so. I love thee in such sort. Has thou been mine? Mine is thy good report. Ninety-seven 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 widowed wombs after their lord's decease. Yet this abundant issue seemed to me but hope of orphans and unfathered fruit. For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, and thou away, the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, it is with so dull a cheer, that leaves look pale, dreading the winters near. Ninety-eight From you have I been absent in the spring, when proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, hath put a spirit of youth in everything, that heavy Saturn laughed and leaped 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 vermillion in the rose. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed at winter still, and you away, as with your shadow I with these did play. Ninety-nine 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 died. The lily I condemned for thy hand, and buds of marjoram hath stolen thy hair. The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, one blushing shame, another white to spare. A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, and to his robbery had annexed 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 stolen from thee. One hundred. Where art thou muse, that thou forgetst so long, to speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spence thou thy fury on some worthless song, darkening thy power to lend base subjects light. Return, forgetful muse, and straight redeem in gentle number's time so idly spent. Bring to the ear that doth thy laze esteem, and give thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, rusty muse, my love's sweet-faced survey, if time have any wrinkle graven there, if any be a satire to decay, and make time's spoils despise it everywhere. Give my love fame faster than time wastes life, so thou prevents his scythe and crooked knife. End of Part X. Part XI. O truant muse, what shall be thy amends for thy neglect of truth in beauty died? Both truth and beauty on my love depends, so dost thou too and therein dignified? Make answer, muse, wilt thou not happily say, truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay, but best is best if never intermixed. As he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for it lies in thee to make him much outlive a gilded tomb, and to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office, muse, I teach thee how to make him seem long hence, as he shows now. 1.02. My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming. I love not less, though less the show appear. That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming the owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, when I was won't 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 with her mournful hymns did hush the night, but that wild music burdens every bow, and sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I some time hold my tongue, because I would not dull you with my song. 1.03. A lack, what poverty my muse brings forth, that having such a scope to show her pride, the argument all bear is of more worth than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not, if I know more can write. Look in your glass, and there appears a face that overgoes 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. 1.04. To me, fair friend, you never can be old. For as you were when first your eye I eyed, such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold have from the forests shook three summers' pride. Three beautiest springs to yellow autumn turned. In process of the seasons have I seen. Three April perfumes in three hot junes burned, 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 perceived. So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand, hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. 1.05. Yet not my love be called idolatry, nor my beloved as an idle 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 confined, 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 lived alone, which three till now never kept seat in one. 1.06. When, in the chronicle of wasted time, I see descriptions of the fairest whites, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme, in praise of ladies dead and lovely knights. Then in the blazin' of sweet beauty's best, of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies, of this hour-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. 1.07. 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 confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, and the sad augurs mock their own presage. In certainties now crown themselves assured, 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 rhyme, while he insults or dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, when tyrants crests and tombs of brass are spent. 1.08. What's in the brain that ink may character, which hath not figured 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 all the very same, counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, even as when first I hallowed 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 I his page. Having the first conceit of love there bred, where time and outward form would show it dead. 1.09. O never say that I was false of heart, though absence seemed my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart, as from my soul which in thy breast doth lie. That is my home of love. If I have ranged, like him that travels, I return again, just to the time, not with the time exchanged, so that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though, in my nature reigned all frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, that it could so preposterously be stained, 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. 1.10. Alas, tis true, I have gone here and there, and made myself a motley to the view, gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, made old offences of affections new. Most true it is that I have looked on truth ascents and strangely, but by all above these blenches gave my heart another youth, and worse assays proved 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 confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. 1.11. 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 subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand. Pity me then, and wish I were renewed, whilst like a willing patient I will drink potions of isle against 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. 1.12. Your love and pity doth the impression fill, which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow. For what care I, who calls me well or ill, so you or 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 steeled scents or changes right or wrong. In so profound a bism I throw all care of others' voices, that my adders scents to critic and to flatter stop it are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. You are so strongly in my purposed bread, that all the world besides me thinks are dead. 1.13. 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 rudest or gentlest sight, the most sweet-favour or deformed 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. 1.14. For whether doth my mind, being crowned 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 cherubims as your sweet self resemble, creating every bad a perfect best, as fast as objects to his beams assemble? Oh! 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 greying, and to his pallet doth prepare the cup. If it be poisoned, tis the lesser sin, that mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. 1.15. 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 millioned accidents creep in twixed vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things. Alas! Why, fearing of times tyranny, might I not then say, Now I love you best? When I was certain or in certainty, 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. 1.16. 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. Oh, no! It is an ever-fixit mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, whose worths 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 proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 1.17. Use me thus, that I have scanted all, wherein I should your great deserts repay, forgot upon your dearest love to call, where to all bonds do tie me day by day, that I have frequent been with unknown minds, and given to time your own dear purchased right, that I have hoisted sale to all the winds which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my willfulness and errors down, and on just proof surmise, accumulate. Bring me within the level of your frown, but shoot not at me in your awakened hate. Since my appeal says I did strive to prove, the constancy and virtue of your love. 1.18. Sick as to make our appetites more keen, with eager compounds we are pellet urge. As to prevent our maladies unseen, we sicken to Shan sickness when we purge. Even so, being full of your nair-clawing sweetness, to bitter sauces did I frame my feeding. And sick of welfare found a kind of meekness to be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love, to anticipate the ills that were not, grew to false assured, and brought to medicine a healthful state, which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, drugs poison him that fell so sick of you. 1.19. What potions have I drunk of siren tears, distilled from limbic's 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 of fever? O benefit of ill! Now I find true that better is, by evil still made better, and ruined love when it is built anew grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, and gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. 1.20. But 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 hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken, as I by yours, you've passed a hell of time, and I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken to weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembered my deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, and soon to you as you to me, then tendered the humble salve which wounded bosoms fits. But that your trespass now becomes a fee, mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. End of Part 12