W. Shakespeare: Sonnets

1 From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory. But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

3 Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest – Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother, For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime. So thou through windows of thine age shalt see Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

15 When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment, When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease And wear their brave state out of memory: Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

18 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course, untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

27 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear 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 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 soul’s 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.

37 As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune’s 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 despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance am sufficed 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!

38 How can my Muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse? O give thyself the thanks if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight, For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself 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.

43 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 shadow’s 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 By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay? All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

44 If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way, For then despite of space I would be brought From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth, removed from thee, For nimble thought can jump both sea and land As soon as think the place where he would be. But ah, thought kills me, that I am not thought, To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend time’s leisure with my moan, Receiving nought by elements so slow But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

49 Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Called to that audit by advised respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity, Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert And this my hand against myself uprear To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love, I can allege no cause.

53 What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you. On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new. Speak of the spring and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

55 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire, shall burn The living record of your memory. ’Gainst death and all oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity, That wear this world out to the ending doom. So till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this and dwell in lover’s eyes.

60 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity; wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, And time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish, set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

66 Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

75 So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground, And for the peace of you I hold such strife As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure; Sometime all full with feasting on your sight And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

81 Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive, when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die. The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead. You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

90 Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss. Ah, do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come. So shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune’s might, And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

91 Some glory 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, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse. And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest. But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best: Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost, 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.

97 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 was summer’s time: The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease. Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait 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.

98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer’s story tell; Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew, Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.

99 The forward violet thus did I chide: “Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride, Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.” The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair. The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair, A third, nor red, nor white, had stolen of both, And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath. But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker ate him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.

113 Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that which governs me to go about, Doth part his function and is partly blind, Seems seeing, but effectually is out, For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch. Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch, For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature, The mountain or the sea, the day or night, The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature. Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempest and is never shaken. It is the star to every wand’ring bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

118 Like as, to make our appetites more keen, With eager compounds we our palate urge, As, to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness, To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love: t’ anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthful state, Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured. But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

122 Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full charactered with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date even to eternity, Or at the least so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to rased oblivion yield his part Of thee – thy record never can be missed. That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score. Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more. To keep an adjunct to remember thee, Were to import forgetfulness in me.

127 In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name; But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame: For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Sland’ring creation with a false esteem. Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.

128 How oft when thou, my music, music play’st Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blessed than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

130 My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun. Coral is far more red than her lips’ red. If snow be white, why, then her breasts are dun. If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she, belied with false compare.

136 If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there. Thus far for love my love-suit sweet fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. In things of great receipt with ease we prove: Among a number one is reckoned none. Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy stores’ account I one must be. For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing, me, a something sweet to thee. Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov’st me, for my name is Will.

138 When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue. On both sides thus is simple truth supprest. But wherefore says she not she is unjust, And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

143 Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay, Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face, Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent. So run’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 kind. So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

153 Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep. A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground, Which borrowed from this holy fire of love A dateless lively heat still to endure, And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress’ eye love’s brand new fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast. I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distempered guest, But found no cure. The bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire: my mistress’ eyes.