The Sonnets and Other Poems (19 page)
Read The Sonnets and Other Poems Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
Not from the stars do I
my judgement pluck
1
And yet methinks I
have
2
astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of
dearths
4
, or
seasons’ quality
,
Nor can I
fortune to brief minutes tell
5
,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By
oft predict
8
that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such
art
10
As
11
truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to
store
12
thou wouldst
convert
:
Or else of thee this I
prognosticate
13
,
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and
14
date
.
When I
consider
1
everything that grows
Holds in perfection
2
but a little moment,
That this huge
stage
3
presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret
4
influence
comment:
When I perceive that men
as
5
plants increase,
Cheerèd and checked
6
ev’n by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt
7
in their youthful sap,
at height decrease
,
And
wear their brave state out of memory
8
:
Then the
conceit
9
of
this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where
wasteful
11
time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to
sullied
12
night,
And
all in war
13
with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I
engraft you new
14
.
But wherefore
1
do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this
bloody
2
tyrant, Time?
And
fortify
3
yourself in your decay
With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you
on the top of happy hours
5
,
And many
maiden
6
gardens
, yet
unset
,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much
liker
8
than your painted
counterfeit
:
So should the
lines of life
9
that life repair
,
Which
this
10
, Time’s pencil, or my
pupil
pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward
fair
11
,
Can make you
live yourself
12
in eyes of men.
To
give away yourself
13
keeps yourself still
,
And you must live,
drawn by your own sweet skill
14
.
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high
deserts
2
?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your
parts
4
.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And
in fresh number
6
s number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies:
Such heavenly
touches
8
ne’er touched earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of
less truth than tongue
10
,
And your
true
11
rights
be termed a
poet’s rage
And
stretchèd
12
metre of an
antique
song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice — in it and in my rhyme.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more
temperate
2
.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s
lease
4
hath all too short a
date
.
Sometime too hot the
eye of heaven
5
shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every
fair from fair sometime declines
7
,
By chance or nature’s changing course
untrimmed
8
:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose
possession
10
of that
fair thou ow’st
,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal
lines
12
to time thou grow’st
.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives
this
14
and this gives life to thee.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet
brood
2
,
Pluck the
keen
3
teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws
And burn the long-lived
phoenix
4
in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou
fleet’st
5
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading
sweets
7
.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O,
carve
9
not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine
antique
10
pen.
Him in thy course
untainted
11
do allow
For beauty’s
pattern
12
to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love
14
shall in my verse ever live young.
A woman’s face
with Nature’s own hand painted
1
Hast thou, the
master-mistress
2
of my passion
,
A woman’s gentle heart, but not
acquainted
3
With shifting change as is
false
4
women’s fashion,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in
rolling
5
,
Gilding
6
the object whereupon it gazeth:
A man in
7
hue
, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And
for
9
a woman wert thou first created,
Till Nature as she
wrought
10
thee
fell a-doting
,
And by addition
me of thee defeated
11
By adding
one thing
12
to my purpose nothing
.
But since she
pricked thee out
13
for women’s
pleasure
,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s
14
use
their
treasure
.
So is it not with me as with that
Muse
1
,
Stirred
2
by a
painted
beauty to his verse,
Who
heaven itself for ornament doth use
3
And
every fair with his fair doth rehearse
4
,
Making a couplement of proud compare
5
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers and all things
rare
7
That heaven’s air in this huge
rondure
8
hems
.
O let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As
any mother’s child
11
, though not so bright
As those
gold candles
12
fixed in heaven’s air.
Let them say more that like of
hearsay
13
well:
I will not praise that
purpose
14
not to sell.
My
glass
1
shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of
one date
2
,
But when in thee time’s
furrows
3
I behold,
Then
look I
4
death my days should
expiate
.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly
raiment
6
of my heart,
Which
in thy breast doth live, as thine in me
7
:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love,
be of thyself so wary
9
As I, not for myself, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so
chary
11
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart
13
when mine is slain:
Thou gav’st me thine, not to give back again.
As an
unperfect
1
actor on the stage,
Who
with his fear is put besides his part
2
,
Or some fierce thing
replete
3
with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,
So I,
for fear of trust
5
, forget to say
The
perfect ceremony of love’s rite
6
,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged
8
with burden of mine own love’s
might
.
O, let my
books
9
be then the eloquence
And dumb
presagers
10
of my speaking
breast
,
Who
11
plead for love and look for recompense,
More than
that tongue
12
that more hath more expressed.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s
fine wit
14
.
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath
stelled
1
Thy beauty’s form in
table
2
of my heart,
My body is the
frame
3
wherein ’tis held
And
perspective
4
it is best painter’s art.
For
through
5
the painter must you see his skill
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom’s
shop
7
is hanging
still
,
That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes
8
.
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, wherethrough the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes
this cunning want
13
to grace their art:
They draw but what they see,
know
14
not the heart.
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of
2
public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such
triumph
3
bars,
Unlooked for
4
joy in that I honour most
.
Great princes’ favourites their fair
leaves
5
spread
But as the
marigold
6
at the sun’s eye,
And
in themselves their pride lies burièd
7
,
For at a frown they in their
glory
8
die.
The
painful
9
warrior
famousèd
for
might
,
After a thousand victories once
foiled
10
,
Is from the book of honour
razèd
11
quite
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not
remove
14
nor be removed.
Lord of my love, to whom in
vassalage
1
Thy merit hath my duty strongly
knit
2
,
To thee I send this written
ambassage
3
To
witness
4
duty, not to show my
wit
.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in
wanting
6
words to show it,
But that I hope
some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it
7
,
Till whatsoever star that guides my
moving
9
Points on me graciously with
fair aspect
10
And puts apparel on my tattered 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
14
.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The
dear
2
repose for limbs with
travel
tired,
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts, from
far
5
where I abide,
Intend
6
a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see,
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy
shadow
10
to my sightless view,
Which
11
, 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
14
thee and for myself no quiet find.
How can I then
1
return in happy
plight
That am debarred the benefit of rest,
When day’s
oppression
3
is not eased by night,
But day by night and night by day oppressed?
And each, though enemies to either’s reign,
Do in consent
shake hands
6
to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
7
How far I toil, still further off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright
And
dost him grace
10
when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the
swart-complexioned
11
night,
When sparkling stars
twire
12
not thou
gild’st the even
.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.