That heavenʼs air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any motherʼs child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixʼd in heavenʼs air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
XXII
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee timeʼs furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou gavʼst me thine not to give back again.
XXIII
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strengthʼs abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of loveʼs rite,
And in mine own loveʼs strength seem to decay,
Oʼerchargʼd with burthen of mine own loveʼs might.
O! 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 expressʼd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to loveʼs fine wit.
XXIV
Mine eye hath playʼd the painter and hath stellʼd,
Thy beautyʼs form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein ʼtis held,
And perspective it is best painterʼs art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image picturʼd lies,
Which in my bosomʼs 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.
XXV
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlookʼd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princesʼ favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sunʼs eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foilʼd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toilʼd:
Then happy I, that love and am belovʼd,
Where I may not remove nor be removʼd.
XXVI
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
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, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soulʼs thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatterʼd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tirʼd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when bodyʼs workʼs 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 soulʼs imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
XXVIII
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarreʼd the benefit of rest?
When dayʼs oppression is not easʼd by night,
But day by night and night by day oppressʼd,
And each, though enemies to eitherʼs reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexionʼd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gildʼst the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make griefʼs length seem stronger.
XXIX
When in disgrace with fortune and menʼs 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,
Featurʼd like him, like him with friends possessʼd,
Desiring this manʼs art, and that manʼs scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,—and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heavenʼs gate;
For thy sweet love rememberʼd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XXX
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 timeʼs waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in deathʼs dateless night,
And weep afresh loveʼs long since cancellʼd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanishʼd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell oʼer
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restorʼd and sorrows end.
XXXI
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Loveʼs loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol
ʼn from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removʼd 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 due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lovʼd, I view in thee,
And thou—all they—hast all the all of me.
XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettʼring of the time,
And though they be outstrippʼd 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 friendʼs 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 Iʼll read, his for his love’.
XXXIII
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;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath maskʼd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heavenʼs sun staineth.
XXXIV
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds oʼertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
ʼTis 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 offenderʼs sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offenceʼs cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
XXXV
No more be grievʼd 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 ʼgainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
XXXVI
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not loveʼs sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from loveʼs delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
XXXVII
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortuneʼs dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despisʼd,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficʼd,
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!
XXXVIII
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pourʼst into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For whoʼs so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self 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.
XXXIX
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 isʼt 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 deservʼst alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.
XL
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst 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 blamʼd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
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 loveʼs wrong, than hateʼs known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
XLI
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime 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 won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailʼd;
And when a woman woos, what womanʼs son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailʼd?
Ay 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.
XLII
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 knowʼst 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 loveʼs 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 hereʼs the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.
XLIII
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadowʼs 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
The Sonnets Page 2