The Sonnets and Other Poems (16 page)
Read The Sonnets and Other Poems Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
With this, they all at once began to say,
Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.
‘No,
no,’ quoth she, ‘no dame, hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving
1714
.’
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin’s name. ‘He, he,’ she says,
But more than ‘he’ her poor tongue could not speak,
Till after many accents and delays,
Untimely
1720
breathings, sick and short
assays
,
She utters this, ‘He, he, fair lords, ’tis he,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.’
Even here she sheathèd in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed.
That blow did
bail
1725
it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted
prison
1726
where it breathed.
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her wingèd
sprite
1728
, and through her wounds doth fly
Life’s lasting date from cancelled destiny
1729
.
Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly
crew
1731
,
Till Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughtered body threw,
And from the purple fountain
Brutus
1734
drew
The murd’rous knife and, as it left the place,
Her blood, in poor revenge,
held it in chase
1736
,
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who, like a
late-sacked
1740
island,
vastly
stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remained,
And some looked black and that false Tarquin stained.
About the mourning and congealèd face
Of that black blood a
wat’ry rigol
1745
goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place,
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows,
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrefied.
‘Daughter, dear daughter,’ old
Lucretius
1751
cries,
‘That life was mine which thou hast here deprived.
If in the child the father’s image lies,
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?
Thou wast not to this end from me derived.
If children
predecease progenitors
1756
,
We are their offspring and they none of ours.
‘Poor broken
glass
1758
, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new born,
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn.
O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
And
shivered
1763
all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was.
‘O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,
If they
surcease
1766
to be that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger
And leave the falt’ring feeble souls alive?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive.
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see
Thy father die and not thy father thee.’
By this, starts Collatine as from a dream
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow
place
1773
,
And then in
key-cold
1774
Lucrece’ bleeding stream
He falls and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And
counterfeits
1776
to die with her a space,
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath
And live to be revengèd on her death.
The deep
vexation
1779
of his inward soul
Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue,
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
Begins to talk, but through his lips do throng
Weak words,
so thick come
1784
in his poor heart’s aid,
That no man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime ‘Tarquin’ was pronouncèd plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrow’s tide, to make it more.
At last it rains and busy winds give o’er
1790
.
Then son and father weep with equal
strife
1791
Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.
The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
The father says, ‘She’s mine’. ‘O, mine she is’,
Replies her husband. ‘Do not take away
My sorrow’s
interest
1797
, let no mourner say
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wailed by Collatine.’
‘O,’ quoth Lucretius, ‘I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spilled.’
‘Woe, woe,’ quoth Collatine, ‘she was my wife,
I
owed
1803
her and ’tis mine that she hath killed.’
‘My daughter’ and ‘my wife’ with clamours filled
The
dispersed
1805
air, who, holding Lucrece’ life,
Answered their cries, ‘my daughter’ and ‘my wife’.
Brutus
1807
, who plucked the knife from Lucrece’ side,
Seeing such
emulation
1808
in their woe,
Began to clothe his
wit
1809
in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece’ wound his
folly’s show
1810
.
He with the Romans was esteemèd so
As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
For sportive words and utt’ring foolish things,
But now he throws that shallow
habit
1814
by,
Wherein
deep policy
1815
did him disguise,
And armed his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes.
‘Thou wrongèd lord of Rome,’ quoth he, ‘arise!
Let my
unsounded
1819
self, supposed a fool,
Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.
‘Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish
humour
1825
from weak minds proceeds.
Thy
wretched
1826
wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself that should have slain her foe.
‘Courageous Roman, do not
steep
1828
thy heart
In such
relenting
1829
dew of lamentations,
But kneel with me and help to bear thy part
To rouse our Roman gods with
invocations
1831
,
That they will
suffer
1832
these abominations —
Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced —
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.
‘Now, by the
Capitol
1835
that we adore,
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,
By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the
fat
1837
earth’s store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintained,
And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complained
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife
We will revenge the death of this true wife.’
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kissed the fatal knife, to end his vow,
And to his
protestation
1844
urged the rest,
Who,
wond’ring
1845
at him, did his words
allow
.
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
And that deep vow, which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this
advisèd doom
1849
,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To show her bleeding body
thorough
1851
Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence;
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans
plausibly
1854
did give consent
To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment.
[1]
When my love swears that she is
made of truth
1
,
I do believe her, though I know she
lies
2
,
That
she might think
3
me some untutored youth,
Unskilful in the world’s
false forgeries
4
.
Thus
vainly
5
thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I, smiling,
credit
7
her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing
8
faults in love with
love’s ill rest
.
But
wherefore
9
says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best
habit
11
’s in a soothing tongue,
And age in love loves not to have years
told
12
.
Therefore I’ll
lie
13
with love and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus
smothered
14
be.
Two
loves
1
I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do
suggest
2
me
still
:
My better angel is a man right
fair
3
,
My worser spirit a woman
coloured ill
4
.
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 fair
pride
8
.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each, friend,
I guess one angel in another’s
hell
12
.
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel
fire my good one out
14
.
Did not the heavenly
rhetoric
1
of thine eye,
Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false
perjury
3
?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I
forswore
5
, but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love.
Thy
grace
8
being gained cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath and breath a vapour is,
Then thou, fair sun that on this earth doth shine,
Exhal’st
11
this vapour vow.
In thee it is
:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?
Sweet
Cytherea
1
, sitting by a brook
With young
Adonis
2
, lovely, fresh and
green
,
Did court the lad with many a
lovely
3
look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.
She told him stories to delight his ears,
She showed him
favours
6
to allure his eye,
To win his heart she touched him here and there:
Touches so soft
still
8
conquer chastity.
But whether
unripe
9
years did
want conceit
,
Or he refused to take her
figured proffer
10
,
The
tender
11
nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair
queen
13
, and
toward
:
He rose and ran away, ah fool too
froward
14
.
If love make me
forsworn
1
, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed.
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove:
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like
osiers
4
bowed.
Study
5
his bias leaves
, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that
art
6
can comprehend.
If knowledge be the
mark
7
, to know thee shall suffice:
Well learnèd is that tongue that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some
praise
10
, that I thy
parts
admire.
Thine eye
Jove
11
’s lightning seems, thy voice his
dreadful
thunder,
Which, not to anger
bent
12
, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When
Cytherea
3
, all in love forlorn,
A longing
tarriance
4
for
Adonis
made
Under an
osier
5
growing by a brook,
A brook where
Adon
6
used to cool his
spleen
.
Hot was the day, she
hotter
7
that did
look
For
his approach, that often there had been.
Anon
9
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
11
eye,
Yet not so
wistly
12
as this queen on him.
He, spying her,
bounced in
13
whereas
he stood:
‘O
Jove
14
,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a
flood
?’
Fair is my love but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a
dove
2
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
5
dye to
grace
her,
None fairer, nor none
falser
6
to
deface
her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joinèd,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing.
How many tales to please me hath she
coinèd
9
,
Dreading
10
my love, the loss whereof still fearing.
Yet in the midst of all her pure
protestings
11
,
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
15
the love and yet she
foiled
the framing,
She bade love last and yet she
fell
16
a-turning
.
Was this a lover or a lecher,
whether
17
?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither
18
.
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must
needs
2
, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great ’twixt
thee
3
and me,
Because thou lov’st the one and I the other.
Dowland
5
to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense:
Spenser
7
to me, whose deep
conceit
is such
As passing all conceit needs no defence.
Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That
Phoebus
10
’ lute, the queen of music, makes:
And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of
both
13
, as poets
feign
:
One knight
14
loves both and both in thee remain.
Fair was the morn, when the fair
queen of love
1
,
[ ]
2
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For
Adon
4
’s sake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her
stand
5
she takes upon a
steep-up
hill.
Anon
6
Adonis comes with horn and hounds:
She,
silly
7
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
10
deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of
ruth
11
!
See, in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘here was the sore.’
She showed hers — he saw
more wounds than one
13
,
And blushing fled and left her all alone.
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon faded,
Plucked in the bud and faded in the spring.
Bright
orient pearl
3
, 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
8
thou left’st me nothing in thy will.
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave,
For why I cravèd nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
Venus
1
with Adonis sitting by her
Under a
myrtle
2
shade began to woo him.
She told the
youngling
3
how god
Mars
did
try her
,
And as he
fell
to
4
her, she fell to him.
‘Even thus’, quoth she, ‘the warlike god embraced me’,
And then she
clipped
6
Adonis in her arms:
‘Even thus’, quoth she, ‘the warlike god
unlaced
7
me’,
As if the boy should use
like
8
loving charms:
‘Even thus’, quoth she, ‘he
seizèd on
9
my lips’,
And with her lips on his did act the seizure:
And as she
fetchèd
11
breath, away he skips
And would not
take
12
her meaning nor her
pleasure
.
Ah, that I had my lady
at this bay
13
,
To kiss and
clip
14
me till I run away!
Crabbèd
1
age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of
pleasance
2
, age is full of
care
,
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather,
Youth like summer
brave
4
, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of
sport
5
, 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
11
,
For methinks thou
stays
12
too long.
Beauty is but a
vain
1
and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it
’gins
3
to bud,
A brittle glass that’s broken
presently
4
,
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are
seld
7
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, forever lost,
In spite of
physic
12
,
painting
,
pain
and cost.
Goodnight, good rest: ah, neither be my share.
She bade goodnight that kept my rest away,
And
daffed me
3
to a
cabin
hanged with care
,
To
descant on the doubts of my decay
4
.
‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again tomorrow’:
Fare
6
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
8
:
’T may be she joyed to jest at my exile,
’T may be again to make me wander thither:
‘Wander’, a word for shadows like myself,
As
12
take the pain, but cannot
pluck the pelf
.
Lord, how mine eyes
throw gazes to the east
13
!
My heart doth
charge the watch
14
, the morning rise
Doth
cite
15
each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the
office
16
of mine eyes.
While
Philomela
17
sits and sings, I sit and
mark
,
And wish her
lays
18
were tunèd like the lark.
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night:
The night so
packed
21
, I
post
unto my pretty.
Heart hath his hope and eyes their wishèd sight;
Sorrow changed to solace and solace mixed with sorrow,
For why
24
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
27
,
Yet
28
not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day. Good day, of night now borrow:
Short
30
night tonight and
length
thyself tomorrow.