The Sonnets and Other Poems (23 page)
Read The Sonnets and Other Poems Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
But
1
be contented when that
fell
arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away:
My life hath in this
line
3
some
interest
,
Which
for memorial
4
still
with thee shall stay.
When thou
reviewest
5
this, thou dost review
The very part was
consecrate
6
to thee.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due:
My spirit is thine, the better part of me.
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The
coward
11
conquest of a
wretch’s knife
,
Too
base
12
of thee to be rememberèd.
The worth
of that
13
is that which it contains,
And that is
this
14
, and this with thee remains.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life
Or as
sweet-seasoned
2
showers are to the ground,
And
for the peace of you
3
I
hold such strife
As
’twixt
4
a miser and his wealth is found:
Now proud as an enjoyer and
anon
5
Doubting
6
the
filching
age will steal his treasure,
Now
counting
7
best to be with you alone,
Then
bettered
8
that the world may see my pleasure,
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by
clean
10
starvèd for a look,
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I
pine
13
and
surfeit
day by day,
Or
14
gluttoning on all, or
all away
.
Why is my verse so barren of new
pride
1
?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to
compounds strange
4
?
Why write I still
all one
5
, ever the same,
And keep
invention
6
in a
noted weed
,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they
did proceed
8
?
O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my
argument
10
:
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent,
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still
telling
14
what is told.
Thy
glass
1
will show thee how thy beauties
wear
,
Thy
dial
2
how thy precious minutes waste,
The
vacant leaves
3
thy mind’s imprint
will bear,
And of this book this
learning
4
mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthèd graves will give thee memory
6
,
Thou by thy dial’s
shady stealth
7
mayst know
Time’s thievish progress to eternity.
Look what thy memory cannot contain
Commit to these
waste blanks
10
and thou shalt find
Those
children
11
nursed, delivered from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of
12
thy mind.
These
offices
13
, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
So oft have I invoked thee for my
Muse
1
And found such
fair
2
assistance in my verse
As
3
every
alien
pen hath
got my use
And
under thee
4
their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb
on high
5
to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have
added feathers
7
to the learnèd’s wing
And given
grace
8
a double
majesty
.
Yet be most proud of that which I
compile
9
,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee.
In others’ works thou dost but
mend
11
the
style
,
And
arts
12
with thy sweet graces
gracèd be
:
But
thou art
13
all my art and dost
advance
As high as learning my
rude
14
ignorance.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy
gentle grace
2
,
But now my
gracious numbers
3
are decayed
And my
sick Muse
4
doth give another place
.
I grant, sweet love,
thy lovely argument
5
Deserves the
travail
6
of a worthier pen,
Yet what
of thee
7
thy poet doth
invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek: he can
afford
11
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.
O, how I
faint
1
when I of you do write,
Knowing a
better spirit
2
doth use your name
And in the praise thereof spends all his might
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame.
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble
as
6
the
proudest
sail doth bear,
My
saucy bark
7
inferior far to his
On your broad
main
8
doth
wilfully
appear.
Your
shallowest help
9
will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your
soundless
10
deep doth ride,
Or being wrecked, I am a worthless boat,
He of
tall building
12
and of
goodly pride
.
Then if he thrive and I be
cast away
13
,
The worst was this:
my love was my decay
14
.
Or
1
I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From
hence
3
your memory death cannot take,
Although
in me each part
4
will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone,
to all the world
6
must die.
The earth can yield me but a
common
7
grave,
When you entombèd in men’s eyes shall lie.
Your
monument
9
shall be my
gentle
verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read,
And tongues
to be
11
your being shall rehearse
When
all the breathers of this world
12
are dead.
You
still
13
shall live — such
virtue
hath my pen —
Where breath most breathes,
ev’n in the
14
mouths of men.
I
grant
1
thou wert not married to my
Muse
And therefore mayst without
attaint
2
o’erlook
The
dedicated words
3
which writers use
Of their fair subject,
blessing
4
every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in
hue
5
,
Finding thy worth a
limit past
6
my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some
fresher stamp
8
of
the time-bett’ring days
.
And do so, love, yet when they have devised
What
strainèd
10
touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou, truly fair, wert
truly sympathized
11
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend.
And their
gross
13
painting
might be better used
Where cheeks need blood: in thee it is
abused
14
.
I never saw that you did
painting
1
need,
And therefore to your
fair
2
no painting
set
.
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The
barren tender
4
of a poet’s debt,
And therefore have I
slept in your report
5
,
That
6
you yourself being
extant
well might show
How far a
modern
7
quill doth
come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow
.
This silence
for my sin
9
you did
impute
,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others
would
12
give life and
bring a tomb
.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than
both your poets
14
can in praise devise.
Who is it that says most,
which
1
can say more
Than this rich praise, that
you
2
alone are you,
In whose confine
immurèd
3
is the
store
Which should
example where your equal grew
4
?
Lean
penury
5
within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you,
so dignifies his story
8
.
Let him
but
9
copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And
such a counterpart shall fame his wit
11
,
Making his style admirèd everywhere.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse
14
.
My tongue-tied
Muse
1
in manners holds her still
,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character
3
with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses
filed
4
.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like
unlettered clerk
6
still cry ‘Amen’
To every hymn that
able spirit affords
7
In polished form of well-refinèd pen.
Hearing you praised, I say, ‘ ’Tis so, ’tis true’,
And to the most of praise add something more:
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost,
holds his rank before
12
.
Then others
for the breath of words respect
13
,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking
in effect
14
.
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the
prize
2
of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain
inhearse
3
,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his
spirit
5
, by
spirits
taught to write
Above a mortal
pitch
6
, that
struck me dead
?
No, neither he nor his
compeers
7
by night
Giving him aid, my verse
astonishèd
8
.
He, nor that
affable familiar ghost
9
Which nightly
gulls
10
him with
intelligence
,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence,
But when your
countenance
13
filled up
his
line
,
Then lacked I
matter
14
, that enfeebled mine.
Farewell, thou art too
dear
1
for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy
estimate
2
.
The
charter of thy worth
3
gives thee
releasing
,
My
bonds
4
in thee are all
determinate
.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The
cause of
7
this fair gift in me is
wanting
,
And so my
patent
8
back again is swerving
.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift,
upon misprision growing
11
,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking
no such matter
14
.
When thou shalt be disposed to
set me light
1
And
place my merit in the eye of scorn
2
,
Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art
forsworn
4
.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part
6
I can set down a story
Of faults concealed, wherein I am
attainted
7
,
That
8
thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too,
For
bending
10
all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee
vantage
12
,
double-vantage
me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will
bear all wrong
14
.
Say that thou didst
forsake
1
me for some fault
And I will
comment upon
2
that offence,
Speak of my lameness and I straight will
halt
3
,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desirèd change
6
,
As I’ll myself disgrace, knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange
8
,
Be absent from
thy walks
9
, and in my tongue
Thy sweet belovèd name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And
haply
12
of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself I’ll
vow debate
13
,
For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.
Then
1
hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Now, while the world is
bent
2
my deeds to
cross
,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not
drop in for an after-loss
4
.
Ah do not, when my heart hath
scaped
5
this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe
6
,
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow
To
linger out a purposed overthrow
8
.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the
onset
11
come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might,
And other
strains
13
of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
Some
glory
1
in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments, though
new-fangled ill
3
,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse,
And every
humour
5
hath his
adjunct
pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my
measure
7
:
All these I
better
8
in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth,
prouder than garments’ cost
10
,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be:
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast —
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.
But
1
do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For
term of life
2
thou art assurèd mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the
worst of wrongs
5
,
When
in the least of them my life hath end
6
.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy
humour
8
doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life
on thy revolt doth lie
10
.
O, what a
happy
11
title
do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die.
But what’s so
blessèd-fair
13
that fears no
blot
?
Thou mayst be
false
14
, and yet I know it not.
So
1
shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceivèd husband: so
love’s face
2
May still seem love to me, though
altered new
3
,
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place,
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many’s looks the false heart’s history
Is writ in moods and frowns and
wrinkles
8
strange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell.
Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like
Eve’s apple
13
doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue
answer not thy show
14
.
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do
the thing they most do show
2
,
Who,
moving
3
others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd,
cold
4
, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And
husband nature’s riches from expense
6
.
They are the
lords and owners of their faces
7
,
Others but
stewards
8
of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though
to itself
10
it only live and die,
But if that flower with
base
11
infection
meet,
The
basest
12
weed
outbraves
his dignity:
For sweetest
things
13
turn sourest by their
deeds
,
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds
14
.
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a
canker
2
in the fragrant rose,
Doth
spot
3
the beauty of thy budding
name
.
O, in what
sweets
4
dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy
sport
6
,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise:
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a
mansion
9
have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see.
Take heed, dear heart, of this
large privilege
13
:
The hardest
knife
14
ill-used
doth lose his
edge
.
Some say thy fault is youth, some
wantonness
1
,
Some say thy grace is youth and
gentle
2
sport,
Both grace and faults are loved
of more and less
3
:
Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort
4
.
As on the finger of a thronèd queen
The
basest
6
jewel will be well esteemed,
So are those
errors
7
that in thee are seen
To
truths
8
translated
and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If
like a lamb he could his looks translate
10
?
How many
gazers
11
mightst thou lead
away
,
If thou wouldst use the
strength of all thy state
12
?
But do not so: I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report
13
.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year.
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December’s bareness everywhere.
And yet this
time removed
5
was summer’s time,
The
teeming
6
autumn,
big
with rich
increase
,
Bearing
7
the
wanton burden of the prime
,
Like widowed wombs after
their lords’
8
decease:
Yet this abundant
issue
9
seemed to me
But hope of orphans and
10
unfathered
fruit,
For summer and his pleasures
wait
11
on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute —
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.