 CHAPTER I From fairest creatures we desire increased, that thereby beauty's rose might never die. But as the riper should by time desceased, his tender air might bear his memory. But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, feedest thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, making a famine where abundance lies, thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, and only herald to the gaudy spring, within thine own bud variest thy content, and tender churl makest waste in niggerding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world's dew by the grave, and thee. CHAPTER II When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, and dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, will be a 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 sum my count, and make my old excuse, proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old, and see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold. CHAPTER III Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest. Now is the time that face should form another, whose fresh repair, if now thou not renewest, thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unearned 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, thy single and thine image dies with thee. CHAPTER IV Untrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend, upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, and being frank, she lends to those are free. Then Butis, niggard, why dost thou abuse, the bounteous largesse given thee to give? As usurer, why dost thou use so great a sum of sums, yet can'ts not live? For having traffic with thyself alone, thou of thyself thy sweet self-dust deceive? Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, what acceptable audit can'ts thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tuned with thee, which used lives the executor to be. CHAPTER V Those hours that with gentle work did frame, the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, will play the tearants 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 in bareness everywhere. Then were not summers 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, least but their show, their substance still lives sweet. CHAPTER VI 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 happy's those that pay the willing loan. That's for thyself to breed another thee, or ten times happier be it ten for one. Ten times thyself were happier than thou art. If ten of thine ten times refigured thee, then what could death do if thou shouldest 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. CHAPTER VII Lo, in the Orient, when the gracious light lifts up his burning head, each under eye doth homage to his new appearing sight, serving with looks his sacred majesty, and having 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 realeth from the day, the eyes, fordudious now converted are, from his low tract in look another way. So thou, thyself, outgoing in thy noon, unlooked on, dyest, unless thou get a sun. CHAPTER VIII Quick to hear, why hearest thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy, why loveest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? If the true conquered 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 shouldest bear. Like how one strings 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. CHAPTER IX Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, that thou consumeest 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 has left behind, when every private widow well may keep, by children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend, shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it. But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, and kept unused the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits, that on himself such murderous shame commits. CHAPTER X For shame deny that thou bearest love to any, who for thyself art so unprovident. And 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 against thyself thou stickst not to conspire, seeking that butchess' 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? He 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. CHAPTER X As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest, in one of thine from that which thou departest, in that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest, thou maest 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 shouldest in bounty cherish. She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, thou shouldest print more, not let that copy die. CHAPTER XII When I do count the clock that tells the time, and see the brave day sunk in hideous night, when I behold the violet past prime, and sable curls all silvered o'er with white. When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, which erst from heat did canopy the herd, and summer's green all girded up in sheaves, born on the bire with white and bristly beard. Then of thy beauty do I question make, that thou among the wastes of time must go, since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, and die as fast as they see others grow. And nothing against time's scythe can make defence save breed to brave him when he takes the hence. CHAPTER XIII O that you were yourself, but love you are no longer yours than you yourself here live, against this coming end you should prepare, and your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty, which you hold in lease, find no determination, then you were yourself again after yourself's decease, when your sweet issue, your sweet form should bear, who let 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. CHAPTER 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 of 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 wouldest convert. Or else of thee this I prognosticate, thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. CHAPTER 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, vaunted 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, or wasteful time debateth with decay to change your day of youth to sullied night, and all in war with time for love of you, as he takes from you I engraft you new. But wherefore do not you a mightier way make war upon this bloody tyrant time, and fortify 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, times pencil, or my pupil pen, neither in inward worth nor outward fair, can make you live yourself in eyes of men, to give away yourself keeps your self still, and you must live drawn by your own sweet skill. With your most high deserts, though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say, this poet lies, such heavenly touches ne'er 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. End of Chapter 17 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, thou art more lovely, and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed, and every fair from fair sometimes 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. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 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 therewith 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. Chapter 20 A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, hath 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 worked thou first created, till nature as she wrought thee fell adotting, 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. Chapter 21 So is it not with me as with that muse, stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, who heaven itself foreornament doth use, and every fair with his fair doth rehearse, making a coupliment of proud compare with sun and moon, with earth and seas rich gems, with April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, that heaven's air in this huge rondeur 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 hearsay, well, I will not praise that purpose not to sell. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 My glass shall not persuade me I am old, so long as youth and thou are of one date. But when indeed time's furrows I behold, then look, I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee is but the seemingly 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 faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, thou gavest me thine not to give back again. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 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 birthing of mine own love's might. I'll let my looks be then the eloquence, and dumb presagers of my speaking breast, who plead for love and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more expressed. I'll learn to read what silent love hath writ, to hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Mine I hath played the painter, and hath stelled, thy beauty's form in table of my heart. My body is the frame wherein tis held, in perspective it is best painter's art. Out 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 turns eyes for eyes have done. Mine eyes have drawn thy shape and thine for me, are windows to my breast, where through the sun delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee. Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art. They draw but what they see. Know not the heart. Chapter 25 Let those who are in favour with their stars, of public honour and proud titles most, whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars, unlooked for joy in that I honour most. Great Prince's 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 famous for fight, after a thousand victories once foiled, is from the Book of Honor raised quiet. 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. Chapter 25 Chapters 26-50 of Sonnets of William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sam Stinson. Chapter 26 Lord of my love, to whom in vacillage thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, to thee I send this written embassage, to witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine may make seem bare, and wanting words to show it, that that I hope some good conceit of thine and thy soul's thought all make it, will bestow it, till whatsoever star that guides my moving, points on me graciously with fair aspect, and puts apparel 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 mayest prove me. And of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 I haste me to my bed, the dear respose for limbs with travel tired, but 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 beautious and her old face new. Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee and for myself, no quiet find. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 How can I then return in happy plight that am debarred the benefit of rest, when days 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, though 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 this sword-complexion night, when sparkling stars twire not thou guiltst. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, and night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 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 enjoyed content at 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. With I, sweet love, remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time's waste, then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, for precious friends hid in death's dateless night, and weep afresh love long since cancelled woe, and moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, and heavenly from woe to woe tell o'er the sad account of four bemoaned moan, which I knew pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored in sorrow's end. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, which I by lacking have supposed dead, and there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, and all those friends which I thought buried. Now many a holing of sequious tear, hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as 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 do of many now is thine alone. Their images I loved, I view in thee, and thou, all they, hast all the all of me. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 If thou survive my well-contented day, when that churled death my bones with dust shall cover, and shelt by fortune once more resurvey, these poor-rood 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 vouchsafe me, but this loving thought, had my friend's muse grown with this growing age. A dearer birth than this his love had brought to march in ranks of better equipage. But since he died and poets better prove theirs for their style, I'll read his for his love. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Full many a glorious morning have I seen, flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. A non-permit the basis clouds to ride with ugly wrack 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 splendor on my brow. But out a lack he was but one hour mine. The region cloud hath mask him from me now. Yet him for this my love know it disdaineth. Sons of the world may stain when heaven's suns staineth. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Why didst thou promise such a buttious day, and make me travel forth without my cloak, to let base clouds o'er take me in my way, hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, to dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, for no man well of such a salve can speak that heals the wound and cures not the disgrace, nor can thy shame give physic to my grief. Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss, the offender sorrow lends but weak relief to him that bears the strong offenses cross. Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, and they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 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 comments, such civil war is in my love and hate, that I in accessory needs must be to that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Let me confess that we too 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 love's sole effect, yet doth its steel sweet hours from love's delight. I may not ever more acknowledge thee, lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, nor thou with public kindness honor me, unless thou take that honor from thy name. But do not so, I love thee in such sort, as thou being mine, mine is thy good report. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 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 loving grafted 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, that best I wish in thee, this wish I have, then ten times happy me. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 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? O give thyself the thanks if ought in me, worthy perusal 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. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 O how thy worth with manners may I sing, when thou art all the better part of me, what can mine own praise to mine own self bring, and what is but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this let us divided live, and our dear love lose name of single one, that by this separation I may give, that due to thee which thou deserves to loan. O absence, what a torment whatst thou prove, were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave, to entertain the time with thoughts of love, which time and thought so sweetly doth deceive? And that thou teachest how to make one twain, by praising him here, who doth hence remain? End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Take all my loves, my love, ye take them all, what hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayest true love call, all mine was thine, before thou hadst this more? Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest, but yet be 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. Lecivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, when I am sometimes 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 one, beautyous thou art, therefore to be assailed, and when a woman woos, what woman's son will sourly leave her till he have 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. End of Chapter 41 Chapter 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. Loving 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, than she loves but me alone. End of Chapter 42 Chapter 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 and dark directed. Then thou whose shadow, 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 and perfect 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. End of Chapter 43 Chapter 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 element so slow, but heavy tears, badges of either's woe. End of Chapter 44 Chapter 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 recured 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. End of Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war. How to divide the conquest of thy sight? Mine eye, my heart, thy picture sight would bar. My heart, mine eye, the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him doth lie, a closet never pierced with crystal eyes. But the defendant doth that plea deny, and says in him thy fair appearance lies. Decide this title is impaneled, a quest of thoughts. Alternates to the heart, and by their verdict is determined the clear eyes moiety, and the dear heart's part. As thus mine eyes do, is thy outward part, and my heart's right thy inward love of heart. End of Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, and each doth good turns now unto the other, when that mine eye is famished for a look, or heart in love with size himself doth smother, with my love's picture, then my eye doth feast, and to the painted banquet bids my heart. Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, and in his thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, thy self away art present still with me. For thou not farther than my thoughts can't 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. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 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, and share wards of trust. But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, thou best of dearest, and mine only care, art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not 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 in part, and even thence thou wilt be stolen I fear, for truth proves thievish for a prize, so dear. End of Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 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, call to that audit by advised respects, against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, and scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye, when love converted from the thing it was shall reasons find of settled gravity. Against that time do I ensconce me here, within the knowledge of my own desert, and this my hand against myself 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. End of Chapter 49 Chapter 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 flies onward, and my joy behind. End of Chapter 50 Chapter 51-75 of Sonnets of William Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sam Stinson. Chapter 51 Thus can my love excuse the slow offense 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 perfect 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 the all run, and give him leave to go. Chapter 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 are 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 carcinet. 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 to triumph, being lacked to hope. Chapter 53 What is your substance, whereof are you made, that millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath every one one shade, and you but one, can every shadow lend? Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit, is poorly imitated after you. On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, and you in Grecian tires are painted new. Speak of the spring, and 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, and all external grace you have some part, but you like none, none you for constant heart. Chapter 53 O how much more doth beauty buttious seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odor which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dye, as the perfumed tincture of the roses. Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly, when summer's breath their masked buds discloses. But for their virtue only is their show. They live on wood and unrespected fade, die to themselves, sweet roses do not so. Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made, and so of you, beautyous and lovely youth, when that shell vade by verse distills your truth. End of Chapter 54 Chapter 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 be smeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, and broils root out the work of masonry, nor mars his sword nor wars quick fire shall burn the living record of your memory. Against 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. End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Sweet love, renew thy force, be it not said thy edge should blunter be than appetite, which but today by feeding is elade, tomorrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although today thou fill thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fullness, tomorrow see again, and do not kill the spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Let this sad interim, like the ocean, be, which parts the shore, where too 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. End of Chapter 56 Chapter 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 absent sour, when you have bid your servant once adieu, nor dare I question with my jealous thought, where you may be, or your affair 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. End of Chapter 57 Chapter 58 That, God forbid, that made me first your slave, I shouldn't 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 back, the imprisoned absence of your liberty, and patients tamed to sufferance, bide each cheek without accusing you of injury. Beware you list, your charter is so strong, that you, yourself, may privilege your time to what you will, to you at doth belong, your self-departure of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, nor blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. End of Chapter 58 Chapter 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 berthen 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 and 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 whether better they, or whether revolution be the same. Oh, sure I am the wits of former days, to subjects worse have given admiring praise. End of Chapter 59 Chapter 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 content. Nativity, once in the mane of light, crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, crooked eclipses against his glory fight, in 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. End of Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Is it thy will, thy image should keep open my heavy eyelids to the weary night? Does thou desire my slumber should be broken, while shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou sendest 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 mine I 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. End of Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Sin of self-love possesseth all mine I, 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 my self mine own worth do define, as I all other and all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, beat it and chopped with tant 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. End of Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Against my love shall be, as I am now, with time's injurious hand crushed in or worn, when ours have drained his blood and filled his brow with lines and wrinkles, when his youthful mourn hath traveled onto age's steepy night. And all those beauties, whereof now he's king, are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, stealing away the treasure of his spring, for such a time do I now fortify against confounding age's cruel knife, that he shall never cut from memory, my sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, and they shall live, and he and them still green. End of Chapter 63 Chapter 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 down raised 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. End of Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, but sad mortality o'er sways their power, how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out against the wrackful siege of battering days, when rocks impregnable are not so stout, nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where 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? O none, unless this miracle hath might, that in black ink my love may still shine bright. End of Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Tired with all these for restful death I cry, as to behold desert a beggar born, in needy nothing trimmed in jollity, and purest faith unhappily forsworn, and gilded honor 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. End of Chapter 66 Chapter 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 steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, beggar of blood to blush, through lively veins? For she hath no ex-checker, now but his, and proud of many lives upon his gains? O him she stores to show what wealth she had, and days long since before these last so bad. End of Chapter 67 Chapter 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 durced in habit 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 in true, making no summer of another's green, robbing no old to dress his beauty new. In him as for a map doth nature store, to show false art what beauty was of your. End of Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, want nothing that the thoughts 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 praises crowned, but those same tongues that give thee so thine own, and other accents do this praise confound by seeing farther than the eye hath shone. They look into the beauty of thy mind, and that in guess they measure by thy deeds. Then churls their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, to thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds. But why thy odor matcheth not thy show? The soil is this, that thou dust common grow. End of Chapter 69 Chapter 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 wood of time, for canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, and thou presents'd a pure, unstained 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, masked not thy show, then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should estow. End of Chapter 70 Chapter 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 rid it, for I love you so, that I in 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 and 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. End of Chapter 71 Chapter 72 O lest the world should task you to recite, what merit lived in me, that you should love after my death, dear love. Forget me quite, for you and me can nothing worthy prove, unless you would devise some virtuous lie, to do more for me than mine own desert, and hang more praise upon decease at I, than negard truth would willingly impart. O lest your true love may seem false in this, that you for love speak well of me untrue, my name be buried where my body is, and live no more to shame nor me nor you, for I am shamed by that which I bring forth, and so should you to love things nothing worth. End of Chapter 72 Chapter 73 O lest your life to be that time of year thou mayest in me behold, when yellow leaves or none or few do hang upon those bows which shake against the cold bear ruin choirs where late the sweet bird sang and me thou seest the twilight of such day as after sunset faded 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 seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed were on it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceives'dt, Which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, Which thou must leave ere long. CHAPTER 74 But be contented when that fell arrest, Without all bale shall carry me away. My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviews'dt this, Thou dost review'dt the very part, Was consincrate 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 wretched knife, To base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. CHAPTER 75 So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet season showers are to the ground? And for the peace of you I hold such strife As twix to miser and his wealth is found? Now proud as an enjoyer and a non, Douting the filching age will steal his treasure. Now counting best to be with you alone, Than better that the world may see my pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight save what is had, Or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfate day by day, Or gluttoning on all or all away. CHAPTER 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 all 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. CHAPTER 77 Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste. These vinket leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning maced thou taste, The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory, Thou by thy dial shady stealth maced know, From stevesh 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. CHAPTER 77 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 posie disperse. Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine and born of thee, And 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. CHAPTER 79 While sty alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace. And now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, Thy lovely argument deserves the travail of a worthier pen. Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of and pays it thee again? He lends thee virtue, And he stole that word. From thy behavior, beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek. He can afford no praise to thee, But what indeed doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself doth pay. CHAPTER 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 mane doth willfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride, Or being wrecked, 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. CHAPTER 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 entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall or read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse. When all the breathers of this world are dead, You shall still live such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, Even in the mouths of men. CHAPTER 82 I grant thou wert not married to my muse, And therefore maced without attained 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 strain touches rhetoric can lend. Thou truly fair were truly sympathized, 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. CHAPTER 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. CHAPTER 84 Who is it that says most, Which can say more, Than this rich praise that you alone argue? And whose confine amured 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 beauteous blessings at a curse, Being fond on praise which makes your praises worse. CHAPTER 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 filled, I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerks still cry, Amen, To every hymn that Abel's spirit affords, In polished form of well-refined pen, Hearing you praised, I say, tis true, tis true, And to the most of praise adds something more, But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, Holds his rank before, And others for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts speaking in effect. CHAPTER 86 Was it the proudful sale of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain and 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 compeors 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. CHAPTER 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 determinant. 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 than not knowing, Or me to whom thou gavest it else mistaking, So thy great gift upon misprision growing. Comes home again on better judgment making, Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter, And sleep a king, but waking no such matter. CHAPTER 88 When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side against myself all fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art foresworn, With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story, A false concealed wherein I am attained, That thou in losing me shalt win much glory, And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing the vantage, double vantage me, Such is my love to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. CHAPTER 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 defense. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As all 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 shalt well, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And happily of our old acquaintance tell. For thee against myself all vow debate, For I must nare love him whom thou dost hate. CHAPTER 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 after-loss. Ah, 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 purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty grease 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 loss of thee, will not seem so. CHAPTER 91 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse, In every humor 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. Better 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 mayest take All this away, and me most wretched make. CHAPTER 92 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 humor 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 so blessed fare that fears no blot, Thou mayest be false, and yet I know it not. CHAPTER 93 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, And many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkle strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell. Never thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show? CHAPTER 94 They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation's 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's sweet, Though to it self it only live and die. But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity. For sweetest things turn sourced by their deeds, Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds. CHAPTER 95 How sweet and lovely doth thou make the shame, Which like a canker in the fragrant rose Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name. Oh, in what sweets doth 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, and ill report. Oh, what a mansion have those vices got, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fare that eyes can see. Make heed, dear heart, Of this large privilege, The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. CHAPTER 96 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 makes faults, graces, That to thee resort, Is 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 mightest thou lead away, If thou wouldest use the strength of all thy state? But do not so. I love thee in such sort. It's thou being mine, Mine is thy good report. CHAPTER 97 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, During 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 unfothered fruit. For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, Tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale dreading the winter's near. CHAPTER 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the laze of birds, Nor the sweet smell of different flowers and odor And in hue could make me any summer story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Or did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose? They were but sweet, but figures of delight Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem did winter still and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. CHAPTER 99 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 had stolen thy hair. The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair. A third nor red nor white had stolen of both, And to his robbery had a next thy breath. But for his theft in pride of all his growth, A vengeful kinker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet or color it had stolen from thee. CHAPTER 100 Where art thou muse, that thou forget so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spendest 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 gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey, If time hath any wrinkle graven there, if any Be a satire to decay, and make time spoils, despise it everywhere. Give my love fame faster than time waste's life, So thou preventest his scythe and crooked knife. CHAPTER 101 O truant muse, what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth and beauty died? Both truth and beauty on my love depends, So dost thou too, and there indignified? Make answer, muse, wilt thou not happily say, Truth needs no color with his color fixed, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay, But best is best, if never intermixed, Because he needs no praise. Wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, Fort 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 CHAPTER 102 My love is strengthened, though more weak and seeming, I love not less, though less the show appear, That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth published everywhere, Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was want to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops her pipe in growth of riper days. Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burdens every bow, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Or like her I some time hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song. CHAPTER 103 Alack 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 no 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 know other past 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. CHAPTER 104 To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye eye eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold have from the forest Shook three summers pride. Three beauties springs to yellow autumn turned, And process of the seasons have I seen. Three April perfumes and 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. CHAPTER 105 Let 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. It is my love today, tomorrow 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 and one which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind and true have often lived alone, Which three till now never kept seat in one. CHAPTER 106 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, And 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 our time, all you prefiguring, And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough, you're worth to sing. For we which now behold these present days Have eyes to wonder but lack tongues to praise. CHAPTER 107 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, Suppose it as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage, And 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. CHAPTER 108 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 or 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 Ways not the dust and injury of age, nor Gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for I his page. Finding the first conceit of love therebred, Where time and outward form would show it dead. CHAPTER 109 O never say that I was false of heart, Though absent 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, As 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, and it Thou art my all. CHAPTER 110 Alas! Tis true I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view, Gored my own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offenses of affections new. Most true it is that I have looked on truth Ascanson strangely, But by all above these blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays 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. And give me welcome next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. CHAPTER 111 O for my sake do ye 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 easel against my strong infection, No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance to correct correction. See me then, dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me. CHAPTER 112 Your love and pity doth the impression fill, Which of ulger scandals 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 sense or changes right or wrong, And so profound abysm I throw all care of others' voices, That my adder sense to critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides me thinks are dead. CHAPTER 113 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 a flower, Or shape which it doth latch, of his quick objects half the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch. For if it see the roots or gentlest sight, The most sweet favor 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. CHAPTER 114 Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you, Drink up the monarch's plague this flattery? Or whether shall I say mine eye sayeth true, And that your love taught it this alchemy? To make of monsters and things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best, As fast as objects to his beams assemble. O, tis the first, tis flattery in my scene, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up. Mine eye well knows what with his gust is green, And to his pallet doth prepare the cup. If it be poisoned, tis the lesser sin, Then mine eyes loves it and doth first begin. CHAPTER 115 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, Yet reckoning time, whose millioned accidents Creep entwixed 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. CHAPTER 116 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 tempest 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 sickles 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. CHAPTER 117 Accuses 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 bend with unknown minds, And given to time your own dear purchased right, That I have hoisted sail 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. CHAPTER 118 Like as to make our appetite more keen, With eager compounds we are pallet urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. And so being full of your nair-clawing sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, And sick of welfare found a kind of meatness, To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy and love to anticipate, The ills that were not grew to faults 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 so fell sick of you. CHAPTER 119 What portions have I drunk of siren tears Distilled from limb-back'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 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, Gross fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, And gained by ills thrice more than I have spent. CHAPTER 120 That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, you have 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 as soon to you, As you to me then tendered the humble saff Which wounded bosoms fits. But that your trespass now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. CHAPTER 121 Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed, Not by our feeling but by others seeing. For why should others false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, And they that level at my abuses, Reckon up their own. I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown, Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad, and in their badness reign. CHAPTER 122 Thy gift, thy tables are within my brain, Full charactered with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date even to eternity, Or at the least so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to raised oblivion yield his part of thee, Thy record never can be missed. That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score, Therefore to give them from me was I bold To trust those tables that receive thee more, To keep an adjunct to remember thee, Were to import forgetfulness in me. CHAPTER 123 No, time, thou shalt not boast that I do change, Thy pyramids built up with newer might to me Are nothing novel, nothing strange, They are but dressings of a former sight, Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers in thee I both defy, Not wondering at the present nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow, and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe in thee. CHAPTER 124 If my dear love were but the child of state, It might, for fortunes, bastard be unfathered, As subject to time's love or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds or flowers with flowers gathered. No, it was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, Nor falls under the blow of thrall discontent, Where to, inviting time, our fashion calls, It fears not policy, that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. CHAPTER 125 Where it ought to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honoring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining. Have I not seen dwellers on form and favor, Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet? Forgoing simple savor, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds, Knows no art, but mutual render Only me for thee. Hence, thou suborned informer A true soul when most impeached, Stands least in thy control. CHAPTER 125