A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders5, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her,
And for my sake even so7 doth she abuse me,
Suff’ring8 my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s9 gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss:
Both find each other and I lose both twain11,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross12.
But here’s the joy: my friend and I are one.
Sweet flatt’ry14! Then she loves but me alone.
Sonnet 43
When most I wink1, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected2,
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed4.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright5,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show6
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade8 shines so?
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessèd made
By looking on thee in the living10 day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect11 shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?
All days are nights to see13 till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
Sonnet 44
If the dull1 substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious2 distance should not stop my way,
For then despite3 of space I would be brought,
From limits4 far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter5 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 wrought11,
I must attend time’s leisure12 with my moan,
Receiving naught by elements so slow
But heavy14 tears, badges of either’s woe.
Sonnet 45
The other two1, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide:
The first3 my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent4 with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker5 elements are gone
In tender embassy6 of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone7
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy8,
Until life’s composition be recured9
By those swift messengers returned from thee,
Who even but now11 come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
This told, I joy13 — but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight14 grow sad.
Sonnet 46
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal1 war
How to divide the conquest of thy sight2:
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar3,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right4.
My heart doth plead5 that thou in him dost lie —
A closet6 never pierced with crystal eyes —
But the defendant7 doth that plea deny
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To ’cide9 this title is empanellèd
A quest10 of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determinèd11
The clear eye’s moiety12 and the dear heart’s part,
As thus13: mine eye’s due is thy outward part,
And my heart’s right thy inward love of heart.
Sonnet 47
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league1 is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that3 mine eye is famished for a look,
Or heart4 in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With5 my love’s picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids6 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,
Thyself away are present still with me,
For thou not further than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still12 with them and they with thee.
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight.
Sonnet 48
How careful was I, when I took my way1,
Each trifle under truest bars2 to thrust,
That to my use3 it might unusèd stay
From hands of falsehood4, in sure wards of trust.
But thou, to whom5 my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care7,
Art left the prey of every vulgar8 thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure11 of my breast,
From whence at pleasure12 thou mayst come and part:
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear,
For truth14 proves thievish for a prize so dear.
Sonnet 49
Against1 that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as3 thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advised respects4 —
Against that time when thou shalt strangely5 pass
And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
When love, converted7 from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity8 —
Against that time do I ensconce me9 here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert10,
And this my hand against myself uprear11
To guard12 the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws13,
Since why to love I can allege no14 cause.
Sonnet 50
How heavy1 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 friend2.’
The beast5 that bears me, tirèd with my woe,
Plods dully6 on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch7 did know
His rider loved not speed, being made8 from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily11 he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side,
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
Sonnet 51
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence1
Of my dull bearer2 when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting4 is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity6 can seem but slow?
Then should I spur7, though mounted on the wind:
In wingèd speed no motion shall I know8.
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace:
Therefore desire, of perfects10 love being made,
Shall neigh — no dull flesh11 — in his fiery race,
But love, for love12, thus shall excuse my jade,
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I’ll run and give him leave to go14.
Sonnet 52
So am I as the rich1, whose blessèd key
Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd treasure,
The which he will not ev’ry hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom4 pleasure.
Therefore are feasts5 so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set
Like stones of worth they thinly placèd7 are,
Or captain8 jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as9 my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant11 special blest
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride12.
Blessèd are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope14.
Sonnet 53
What is your substance, whereof1 are you made,
That millions of strange2 shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade3,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend4.
Describe Adonis5, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you.
On7 Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison9 of the year:
The one doth shadow of your beauty show10,
The other as your bounty11 doth appear,
And you in every blessèd shape we know12.
In all external grace13 you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
Sonnet 54
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By2 that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem3
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker blooms5 have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture6 of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play7 as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses8:
But, for their virtue only is their show9,
They live unwooed10 and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves11. Sweet roses do not so:
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made12.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that14 shall fade, my verse distils your truth.
Sonnet 55
Not marble nor the gilded monuments1
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents3
Than unswept stone besmeared with4 sluttish time.
When wasteful5 war shall statues overturn,
And broils6 root out the work of masonry,
Nor7 Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
Gainst death and all oblivious enmity9
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 doom12.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise13,
You live in this14, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
Sonnet 56
Sweet love1, renew thy force. Be it not said
Thy edge2 should blunter be than appetite,
Which but3 today by feeding is allayed,
Tomorrow sharpened in his former might.
So love, be thou, although today thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink6 with fullness,
Tomorrow see again and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness8.
Let this sad int’rim9 like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new10
Come daily to the banks, that11, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view:
Or call it13 winter, which being full of care
Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wished, more rare14.
Sonnet 57
Being your slave, what should I do but tend1
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 chide5 the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous9 thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose10,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save where you are how happy you make those12.
So true a fool is love that in your Will13,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
Sonnet 58
That god forbid, that made me first your slave1,
I should in thought2 control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th’account of hours to crave3,
Being your vassal4, bound to stay your leisure.
O, let me suffer, being at your beck5,
Th’imprisoned absence of your liberty6,
And patience tame to sufferance7, bide each check
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list9, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege10 your time
To what you will: to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime12.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
Sonnet 59
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled2,
Which, labouring3 for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child.
O, that record5 could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun6,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done8,
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composèd wonder of your frame10:
Whether we are mended11, or whe’er better they,
Or whether revolution be the same12.
O, sure I am the wits13 of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
Sonnet 60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with3 that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend4.
Nativity5, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked7 eclipses gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound8.
Time doth transfix9 the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels10 in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities11 of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe12 to mow.
And yet to times in hope13 my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Sonnet 61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows4 like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and8 tenure of thy jealousy?
O no, thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,
Mine own true love that doth my
rest defeat
To play the watchman ever for thy sake.
For thee watch I13, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
Sonnet 62
Sin of self-love possesseth1 all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part,
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious5 is as mine,
No shape so true6, no truth of such account,
And for myself7 mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount8.
But when my glass9 shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopped10 with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read:
Self so self-loving were iniquity12.
’Tis thee, my self, that for myself I praise13,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Sonnet 63
Against1 my love shall be as I am now
With Time’s injurious2 hand crushed and o’er-worn,
When hours have drained his blood3 and filed his brow
With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age’s steepy5 night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing, or vanished, out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring8:
For such a time do I now fortify9
Against confounding10 age’s cruel knife,
That11 he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though12 my lover’s life.
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live and he in them still green14.
Sonnet 64
When I have seen by Time’s fell1 hand defaced
The rich proud cost2 of outworn buried age,
When sometime3 lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass4 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 of7 the wat’ry main,
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 17