The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

Gentle wind sport did find

  Wantonly to make fly

  her gold tresses.

  As they shook I did look,

  But her fair did impair

  all my senses.

  As amazed, I gazed

  On more than a mortal complexion.

  You that love can prove

  Such force in beauty’s inflection.

  6

  Next her hair, forehead fair,

  Smooth and high; neat doth lie,

  without wrinkle,

  Her fair brows; under those,

  Star-like eyes win love’s prize

  when they twinkle.

  In her cheeks who seeks

  Shall find there displayed beauty’s banner;

  O admiring desiring

  Breeds, as I look still upon her.

  7

  Thin lips red, fancy’s fed

  With all sweets when he meets,

  and is granted

  There to trade, and is made

  Happy, sure, to endure

  still undaunted.

  Pretty chin doth win

  Of all their culled commendations;

  Fairest neck, no speck;

  All her parts merit high admirations.

  8

  Pretty bare, past compare,

  Parts those plots which besots

  still asunder.

  It is meet naught but sweet

  Should come near that so rare

  ’tis a wonder.

  No mis-shape, no scape

  Inferior to nature’s perfection;

  No blot, no spot:

  She’s beauty’s queen in election.

  9

  Whilst I dreamt, I, exempt

  From all care, seemed to share

  pleasure’s plenty;

  But awake, care take—

  For I find to my mind

  pleasures scanty.

  Therefore I will try

  To compass my heart’s chief contenting.

  To delay, some say,

  In such a case causeth repenting.

  ‘Upon a pair of gloves that master sent to his mistress’

  The gift is small,

  The will is all:

  Alexander Aspinall

  Poems from The Passionate Pilgrim

  4

  Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook

  With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,

  Did court the lad with many a lovely look,

  Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.

  She told him stories to delight his ear,

  She showed him favours to allure his eye;

  To win his heart she touched him here and there—

  Touches so soft still conquer chastity.

  But whether unripe years did want conceit,

  Or he refused to take her figured proffer,

  The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,

  But smile and jest at every gentle offer.

  Then fell she on her back, fair queen and toward:

  He rose and ran away—ah, fool too froward!

  6

  Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,

  And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,

  When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,

  A longing tarriance for Adonis made

  Under an osier growing by a brook,

  A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen.

  Hot was the day, she hotter, that did look

  For his approach that often there had been.

  Anon he comes and throws his mantle by,

  And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim.

  The sun looked on the world with glorious eye,

  Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.

  He, spying her, bounced in whereas he stood.

  ‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood?’

  7

  Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle,

  Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty,

  Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;

  Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty;

  A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,

  None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

  Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,

  Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing.

  How many tales to please me hath she coined,

  Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing.

  Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings

  Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

  She burnt with love as straw with fire flameth,

  She burnt out love as soon as straw out burneth.

  She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing,

  She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.

  Was this a lover or a lecher whether,

  Bad in the best, though excellent in neither?

  9

  Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,

  Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,

  For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild,

  Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.

  Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds.

  She, seely queen, with more than love’s good will

  Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.

  ‘Once,’ quoth she, ‘did I see a fair sweet youth

  Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,

  Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth.

  See in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘here was the sore.’

  She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one,

  And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

  10

  Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon faded—

  Plucked in the bud and faded in the spring;

  Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded;

  Fair creature, killed too soon by death’s sharp sting,

  Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree

  And falls through wind before the fall should be.

  I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have,

  For why: thou left‘st me nothing in thy will,

  And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave,

  For why: I craved nothing of thee still.

  O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee:

  Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

  12

  Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:

  Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;

  Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;

  Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.

  Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short.

  Youth is nimble, age is lame,

  Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold.

  Youth is wild and age is tame.

  Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.

  O my love, my love is young.

  Age, I do defy thee. O sweet shepherd, hie thee,

  For methinks thou stay’st too long.

  13

  Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,

  A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,

  A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud,

  A brittle glass that’s broken presently.

  A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,

  Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

  And as goods lost are seld or never found,

  As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,

  As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,

  As broken glass no cement can redress,

  So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,

  In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

  14

  Good night, good rest—ah, neither be my share.

  She bade good night that kept my rest away,

  And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care
r />   To descant on the doubts of my decay.

  ‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again tomorrow.’

  Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.

  Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,

  In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether.

  ‘Tmay be she joyed to jest at my exile,

  ‘Tmay be, again to make me wander thither.

  ‘Wander’-a word for shadows like myself,

  As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf.

  Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!

  My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise

  Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,

  Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.

  While Philomela sings I sit and mark,

  And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.

  For she doth welcome daylight with her dite,

  And daylight drives away dark dreaming night.

  The night so packed, I post unto my pretty;

  Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,

  Sorrow changed to solace, and solace mixed with

  sorrow,

  Forwhy she sighed and bade me come tomorrow.

  Were I with her, the night would post too soon,

  But now are minutes added to the hours.

  To spite me now each minute seems a moon,

  Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!

  Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now

  borrow;

  Short night tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.

  Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music

  15

  It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three,

  That liked of her master as well as well might be,

  Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye

  could see,

  Her fancy fell a-turning.

  Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did

  fight: 5

  To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight.

  To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite

  Unto the seely damsel.

  But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain

  That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain.

  For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with

  disdain—

  Alas, she could not help it.

  Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,

  Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away.

  Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;

  For now my song is ended.

  17

  My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,

  My rams speed not, all is amiss.

  Love is dying, faith’s defying,

  Heart’s denying causer of this.

  All my merry jigs are quite forgot,

  All my lady’s love is lost, God wot.

  Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,

  There a nay is placed without remove.

  One seely cross wrought all my loss—

  O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!

  For now I see inconstancy

  More in women than in men remain.

  In black mourn I, all fears scorn I,

  Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall.

  Heart is bleeding, all help needing—

  O cruel speeding, freighted with gall.

  My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,

  My wether’s bell rings doleful knell,

  My curtal dog that wont to have played

  Plays not at all, but seems afraid,

  With sighs so deep procures to weep

  In howling wise to see my doleful plight.

  How sighs resound through heartless ground,

  Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!

  Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,

  Green plants bring not forth their dye.

  Herd stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,

  Nymphs back peeping fearfully.

  All our pleasure known to us poor swains,

  All our merry meetings on the plains,

  All our evening sport from us is fled,

  All our love is lost, for love is dead.

  Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne’er was

  For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan.

  Poor Corydon must live alone,

  Other help for him I see that there is none.

  18

  Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame

  And stalled the deer that thou shouldst strike,

  Let reason rule things worthy blame

  As well as fancy, partial might.

  Take counsel of some wiser head,

  Neither too young nor yet unwed,

  And when thou com‘st thy tale to tell,

  Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk

  Lest she some subtle practice smell:

  A cripple soon can find a halt.

  But plainly say thou lov’st her well,

  And set her person forth to sale,

  And to her will frame all thy ways.

  Spare not to spend, and chiefly there

  Where thy desert may merit praise

  By ringing in thy lady’s ear.

  The strongest castle, tower, and town,

  The golden bullet beats it down.

  Serve always with assured trust,

  And in thy suit be humble-true;

  Unless thy lady prove unjust,

  Press never thou to choose anew.

  When time shall serve, be thou not slack

  To proffer, though she put thee back.

  What though her frowning brows be bent,

  Her cloudy looks will calm ere night,

  And then too late she will repent

  That thus dissembled her delight,

  And twice desire, ere it be day,

  That which with scorn she put away.

  What though she strive to try her strength,

  And ban, and brawl, and say thee nay,

  Her feeble force will yield at length

  When craft hath taught her thus to say:

  ‘Had women been so strong as men,

  In faith you had not had it then.’

  The wiles and guiles that women work,

  Dissembled with an outward show,

  The tricks and toys that in them lurk

  The cock that treads them shall not know.

  Have you not heard it said full oft

  A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?

  Think women still to strive with men,

  To sin and never for to saint.

  There is no heaven; be holy then

  When time with age shall them attaint.

  Were kisses all the joys in bed,

  One woman would another wed.

  But soft, enough—too much, I fear,

  Lest that my mistress hear my song

  She will not stick to round me on th’ear

  To teach my tongue to be so long.

  Yet will she blush (here be it said)

  To hear her secrets so bewrayed.

  The Phoenix and Turtle

  Let the bird of loudest lay

  On the sole Arabian tree

  Herald sad and trumpet be,

  To whose sound chaste wings obey.

  But thou shrieking harbinger,

  Foul precurrer of the fiend,

  Augur of the fever’s end—

  To this troupe come thou not near.

  From this session interdict

  Every fowl of tyrant wing

  Save the eagle, feathered king.

  Keep the obsequy so strict.

  Let the priest in surplice white

  That defunctive music can,

  Be the death-divining swan,

  Lest the requiem lack his right.

  And thou treble-dated crow,

  That thy sable gender mak�
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  With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,

  ’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

  Here the anthem doth commence:

  Love and constancy is dead,

  Phoenix and the turtle fled

  In a mutual flame from hence.

  So they loved as love in twain

  Had the essence but in one,

  Two distincts, division none.

  Number there in love was slain.

  Hearts remote yet not asunder,

  Distance and no space was seen

  ’Twixt this turtle and his queen.

  But in them it were a wonder.

  So between them love did shine

  That the turtle saw his right

  Flaming in the Phoenix’ sight.

  Either was the other’s mine.

  Property was thus appalled

  That the self was not the same.

  Single nature’s double name

  Neither two nor one was called.

  Reason, in itself confounded,

  Saw division grow together

  To themselves, yet either neither,

  Simple were so well compounded

  That it cried ‘How true a twain

  Seemeth this concordant one!

  Love hath reason, reason none,

  If what parts can so remain.’

  Whereupon it made this threne

  To the phoenix and the dove,

  Co-supremes and stars of love,

  As chorus to their tragic scene.

  Threnos

  Beauty, truth, and rarity,