Yet in good faith5 some say, that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan6.
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear
A thousand groans but10 thinking on thy face
One on another’s neck11 do witness bear
Thy black12 is fairest in my judgement’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander14 as I think proceeds.
Sonnet 132
Thine eyes I love and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth4 upon my pain.
And truly not the morning5 sun of heaven
Better becomes6 the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star7 that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober8 west,
As those two mourning9 eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem10 thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace11,
And suit thy pity like in every part12.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul14 that thy complexion lack.
Sonnet 133
Beshrew1 that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound2 it gives my friend and me.
Is’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery4 my sweet’st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye5 hath taken,
And my next self6 thou harder hast engrossed.
Of7 him, myself and thee, I am forsaken,
A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed8.
Prison9 my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail10,
Whoe’er keeps11 me, let my heart be his guard:
Thou canst not then use rigour12 in my jail.
And yet thou wilt, for I, being pent13 in thee,
Perforce am thine and all that is in me14.
Sonnet 134
So, now I have confessed that he1 is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will2,
Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine3
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous and he is kind6.
He learned but surety-like to write for me7
Under that bond8 that him as fast doth bind.
The statute9 of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer10, that put’st forth all to use,
And sue11 a friend came debtor for my sake:
So him I lose through my unkind abuse12.
Him have I lost, thou hast13 both him and me:
He pays the whole14, and yet am I not free.
Sonnet 135
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will1,
And Will to boot2, and Will in overplus:
More than enough am I that vex3 thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition4 thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious5,
Not once vouchsafe6 to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious7,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine8?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store.
So thou, being rich in Will11, add to thy Will
One will of mine12, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill13:
Think all but one and me in that one Will14.
Sonnet 136
If thy soul check1 thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind2 soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there3:
Thus far for love4 my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will5 will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one6.
In things of great receipt7 with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckoned none.
Then in the number let me pass untold9,
Though in thy store’s account10 I one must be:
For nothing11 hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me12, a something sweet to thee.
Make but13 my name thy love and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is Will.
Sonnet 137
Thou blind1 fool, love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies3,
Yet what the be4st is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks5
Be anchored in the bay6 where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forgèd hooks,
Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot9
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place10?
Or11 mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face12?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague14 are they now transferred.
Sonnet 138
When my love swears that she is made of truth1,
I do believe her, though I know she lies2,
That3 she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties4.
Thus vainly5 thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply7 I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore9 says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit11 is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told12.
Therefore I lie13 with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered14 be.
Sonnet 139
O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart,
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue3,
Use power4 with power and slay me not by art,
Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside.
What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might7
Is more than my o’erpressed8 defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows
Her pretty looks10 have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so, but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.
Sonnet 140
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press1
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain4.
If I might teach thee wit5, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so,
As testy7 sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know8.
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee.
Now this ill-wresting world11 is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believèd be.
That I may not be so13, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight14, though thy proud heart go wide.
Sonnet 141
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors2 note,
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of4 view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches6 prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast8 with thee alone.
But my five wits9 nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man11,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal12 wretch to be:
Only my plague13 thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain14.
Sonnet 142
Love is my sin and thy dear1 virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful2 loving.
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits4 not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
That have profaned6 their scarlet ornaments
And sealed7 false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents8.
Be it9 lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune10 thee.
Root11 pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide13,
By self-example14 mayst thou be denied.
Sonnet 143
Lo, as a careful1 housewife runs to catch
One of her feathered creatures2 broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch3
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase5,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing8 her poor infant’s discontent:
So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind.
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind12.
So will13 I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
If thou turn back and my loud crying still14.
Sonnet 144
Two loves1 I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest2 me still:
The better angel is a man right fair3,
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill4.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride8.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend9
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me11, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell12.
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out14.
Sonnet 145
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’
To me that languished for her sake.
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight5 in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom7,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
‘I hate’ she altered with an end
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
‘I hate’ from hate away she threw
And13 saved my life, saying ‘not you’.
Sonnet 146
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[ ] these rebel powers2 that thee array,
Why dost thou pine3 within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay4?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion6 spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge8? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant9’s loss
And let that pine to aggravate10 thy store,
Buy terms divine11 in selling hours of dross,
Within be fed, without12 be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on death13, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
Sonnet 147
My love is as a fever, longing still1
For that which longer nurseth2 the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill3,
Th’uncertain4 sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me and I desperate now approve7
Desire is death8, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care9;
And frantic-mad with evermore10 unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth12 vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair13 and thought thee bright,
Who art as black14 as hell, as dark as night.
Sonnet 148
O me, what eyes hath love1 put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight,
Or if they have, where is my judgement fled
That censures falsely4 what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love’s eye8 is not so true as all men’s ‘no’.
How can it? O, how can love’s eye be true,
That is so vexed10 with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though11 I mistake my view:
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults14 should find.
Sonnet 149
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake2?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of3 myself, all tyrant4 for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour’st7 on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan8?
What merit do I in myself respect9,
That is so proud thy service to despise10,
When all my best doth worship thy defect11,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:
Those that can see thou lov’st14, and I am blind.
Sonnet 150
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency2 my heart to sway,
To make me give the lie to3 my true sight
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day4?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill5,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds6
There is such strength and warrantize7 of skill
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor11,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
Mor
e worthy I to be beloved of thee.
Sonnet 151
Love is too young1 to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience2 is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss3,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
For, thou betraying me5, I do betray
My nobler part6 to my gross body’s treason.
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love: flesh stays no further reason8,
But rising9 at thy name doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize10. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge11 to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall12 by thy side.
No want13 of conscience hold it that I call
Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.
Sonnet 152
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn1,
But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing2:
In act3 thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn
In vowing new hate after new love bearing4.
But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most,
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse7 thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness9,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And to enlighten11 thee gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured eye13,
To swear against the truth so foul14 a lie.
Sonnet 153
Cupid1 laid by his brand and fell asleep.
A maid of Dian2’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep3
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground4,
Which borrowed from this holy fire of love
A dateless6 lively heat, still to endure,
And grew7 a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange8 maladies a sovereign cure.
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 21