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So is the time that keeps you, as my chest, How careful was I, when I took my way, Or as the wardrobe, which the robe doth hide, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,

To make some special instant special-blest, That, to my use, it might unused stay

By new unfolding his imprisou'd pride.
From hands of falsehood, in sare wards of trust. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,

But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Being. had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,

Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care, What is your substance, whereof are you made,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, Since every one hath, every one, one shade, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Aud you, but one, can every shadow lend. Within the gentle closure of my breast,

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and is poorly imitated after you; part;

On Helen's chcek all art of beauty set, And even thence thou wilt be stolen I fear, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. Speak of the spring, and foizon of the year; XLIX.

The one doth shadow of your beauty show, Against that time, if ever that time come, The other as your bounty doth appear, When I shall see thee frown on my defects,

And you in every blessed shape we know. Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum In all external grace you have some part, Call’d to that audit by advised respects,

But you like none, none you, for constant heart. Against that time, when thou shalt strangely

LIV. pass,

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! When love, converted from the thing it was, The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem Shall reasons find of settled gravity,

For that sweet odour which doth in it live. Against that time do 1 ensconce me here

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, Within the kuowledge of my own desert, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, And this my hand against myself uprear,

Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: When summer's breath their masked buds discloses : To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, But, for their virtue only is their show, Since, why to love, I can alledge no cause. They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade ; L.

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; How heavy do I journey on the way,

of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: When what I seek, - my weary travel's end, - And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.

LV. The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; As if by some instinct the wretch did know But you shall shine more bright in these contents His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, When wasteful war shall statues overturn, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, And broils root out the work of masonry, Which heavily he answers with a groan, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn

More sharp to me than spurring to his side; The living record of your memory, For that same groan doth put this in my mind, 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. Shall you pace forth; your praise shali still find LI.

room, Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Even in the eyes of all posterity, of my dull bearer, when from thee / speed : That wear this world out to the ending doom. From where thou art why should i haste me so, till the judgment that yourself arise, thence ?

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. Till I return, of posting is no need.

LVI. 0, what excuse will my poor beast thea find, Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Thy edge should blanter be than appetite, Then should I spur, though mounted on the Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, wind;

To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might; In winged speed no motion shall I know;

So, love, be thou; although to day thou fill Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; Thy hungry eyes, e'en till they wink with fulness, Therefore desire, of perfect love being made, To-morrow see again, and do not kill Shall neigh (no dall flesh) in his fiery race; The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.

But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade; Let this sad interim like the ocean be Since from thee going he went wilful slow, Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new Towards thee I will run, and give him leave to go. Come daily to the banks, that, when they see LII.

Return of love, more bless'd may be the view: So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Or call it winter, which being full of care, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,

Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

LVII. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Being your slave, what should I do but tend Şince seldom coming, in the long year set, Upon the hours and times of your desire ? Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, I have no precious time at all to spend, Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

Nor services to do, till you require.

more rare.

Nor dare I chide the world without-end huur,

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, And all my soul, and all my every part;
When you have bid your servant once adien; And for this sin there is no remedy,

Nor dare l question with my jealous thought, It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

Methinks no face so gracious as is mine, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, No shape so true, no truth of such account,

Save, where you are, how happy you make those: And for myself mine own worth do define, So true a fool is love, that in your will

all other in all worths surmount. (Though you

do any thing) he thinks no ill. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, LVIII.

Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,

Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,
That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure, 'Tis thee (myself

) that for myself I praise,

Self so self-loving were iniquity.
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,

Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure !
Oh let me suffer (being at your beck)

The imprison'd absence of your liberty,

Against my love shall be, as I am now, And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check

With Time's injurious hand cruslı'd and o’erworn: Without accusing you of injury.

When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his

brow Be where you list; your charter is so strong, That you yourself may privilege your time :

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Do what you will, to you it doth belong

Hath travellid on to age's steepy night; Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

And all those beauties, whereof now he's king, I am to wait though waiting so be hell ;

Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, * Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

Stealing away the treasure of his spring;

For such a time do I now fortify

Against confounding age's cruel knife,
If there be nothing new, but that, which is, That he shall never cut from memory
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,

My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. Which labouring for invention bear amiss

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, The second burden of a former child ?

And they shall live, and he in them still green. O that record could with a backward look,

LXIV. Even of five hundred courses of the sun,

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced Show me your image in some antique book,

The rich-proud cost of out-worn buried age; Since mind as first in character was done! That I might see what the old world could say And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, To this composed wonder of your frame;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Whether we are mended, or who'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

And the firm soil win of the wat’ry main, 0! sure I am, the wits of former days,

Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

When I have seen such interchange of state, LX.

Or state itself confounded to decay; Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminateSo do our minutes hasten to their end;

That time will come and take my love away. Each changing place with that which goes before, This thought is as a death, which cannot choose In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Nativity once in the main of light,

LXV. Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. But sad mortality o'ers ways their power,

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Whose action is no stronger than a flower? Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

O how shall summer's honey breath hold out And nothing stands but for his seythe to mow. Against the wreckful siege of battering days, And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? LXI.

O fearful meditation ! where, alack, Is it thy will, thy image should keep open

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

back? While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee O none, unless this miracle have might,
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;

That in black ink my love may still shine bright. To find out shames and idle hours in me,

LXVI. The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, O no! thy love, thongh much, is not so great; as, to behold desert, a beggar born, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake; And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

To play the watchman ever for thy sake: And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake else- And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, where,

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, From me far off, with others all-too-near. And strength by limping sway disabled,



And art made tongue-tied by authority,

Nay, if you read this line, remember not And folly, doctorlike, controlling skill,

The hand that writ it; for I love you so, And simple truth, mis-call’d simplicity,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, And captive good attending captain ill: If thinking on me then should make you woe. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, O if (I say) you look upon this verse, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. When I perhaps compounded am with clay, LXVII.

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, But let


love e'en with my life decay: And with his presence grace impiety,

Lest the wise world should look into your moan, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And mock you with me after I am gone. And lace itself with his society?

LXXIT. Why should false painting imitate his cheek,

0, lest the world should task you to recite And steal dead seeing of his living hue? What merit lived in me, that you should love Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

After my death, dear love, forget me quite, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

For you in me can nothing worthy prove; Why should he live now Nature bankrapt is,

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ?

To do more for me than mine own desert, For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And hang more praise upon deceased I, And proud of many, lives upon his gains, Than niggard truth would willingly impart: 0, him she stores, to shew what wealth she had,

0, lest your true love may seem false in this, In days long since, before these last so bad.

That you for love speak well of me untrue,

My name be buried where my body is,
Thas is his cheek the map of days out-worn, And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
When 'beauty lived and died as flowers do now, For I am 'shamed by that which I bring forth,
Before these bastard signs of fair were borne, And to should you, to love things nothing worth.
Or durst inhabit ou a living brow;

LXXIII. Before the golden tresses of the dead,

That time of year thou may'st in me behold The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,

When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang, To live a second life on second head,

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, E'er beauty's dead fleece made another gay;

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself, and true,

In me thou seest the twilight of such day,

As after sun-set fadeth in the west,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. And him as for a map doth nature store, To show false art what beauty was of

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Those parts ofthee that the world's eye doth view,

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. Want nothing that the thought of heart can mend:

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more All tongues, (the voice of souls) gave thee that due,

strong, Uttering bare truth, e'en so as foes commend. Thine outward thus with outward praise is To love that well which thou must leave ere crown'd;

long. Bat those same tongues that give thee so thine own,

LXXIV. In other accents do this praise confound,

But be contented: when that fell arrest By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

Without all bail shall carry me away, They look into the beauty of thy mind,

My life hath in this line some interest, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds :

Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes

When thou receivest this, thou dost review were kind,

The very part was consecrate to thee. To thy fair flowers add the rank smell of weeds: The earth can have bat earth, which is his due; But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,

My spirit is thine, the better part of me: The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, LXX.

The prey of worms, my body being dead; That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

The coward conqnest of a wretch's knife, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

Too base of thee to be remembered. The ornament of beauty is suspect,

The worth of that, is that which it contains, The crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. And that is this, and this with thee remains. So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time; So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
For canker vice the sweetest bnds doth love, Or as sweet season'd showers are to the ground;
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. And for the peace of you I hold such strife

Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Either vot assaild, or victor being charged; Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged:

Now counting best to be with you alone,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. Sometimes, all fall with feasting on your sight,

And by and by clean starved for a look;
No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Save what is had or must from you be took. Give warning to the world that I am fled

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell :lor gluttoning on all, or all away.


He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Why is my verse so barren of new pride? Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
So far from variation or quick change?

The worst was this;- my love was my decay. Why, with the time, do I not glance aside

LXXXI. To new-found methods and to compounds strange?

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Why write I still all one, ever the same, Or yon survive when I in earth am rotten;
And keep invention in a noted weed,

From hence your memory death cannot take,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? | Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;

Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.

The earth can yield me but a common grave, So all my best is dressing old words new,

When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Spending again what is already spent :

Your monument shall be my gentle verse, For as the sun is daily new and old,

Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; So is

love still telling what is told.

And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,

When all the breathers of this world are dead; Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen,) Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;

Where breath most breathes, e'en in the mouths The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,

of men. And of this book this learning may'st thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,

LXXXII. of mouthed graves will give thee memory;

I grant thon wert not married to my muse, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may'st know And therefore may'st without attaint o'erlook Time's thievish progress to eternity.

The dedicated words which writers use Look, what thy memory cannot contain, Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

And therefore art enforced to seek anew These offices, so soft as thou wilt look,

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. And do so, love; yet when they have devised LXXVIII.

What strained touches rhetoric can lend, So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized And found such fair assistance in my

In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; As every alien pen hath got my use,

And their gross painting might be better used And under thee their poesy disperse.

Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to

LXXXIII. sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

I never saw that you did painting need, Have added feathers to the learned's wing,

And therefore to your fair no painting set, And given grace a double majesty.

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

The barren tender of a poet's debt: Whose influence in thine, and born of thee.

And therefore have I slept in your report, In others' works thou dost but mend the style,

That you yourself, being extant, well might show And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;

How far a modern quill doth come too short, But thou art all my art, and dost advance

Speaking of worth, what worth in

you As high as learning my rude ignorance.

This silence for my sin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

For I impair not beauty being mute, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;

When others would give life, and bring a tomb. But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, And my sick muse doth give another place.

Than both your poets can in praise devise. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

LXXXIV. Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;

Who is it that says most? Which can say more, Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,

Than this rich praise,—that you alone are you? He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.

In whose confine immared is the store He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

Which should example where your equal grew. From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, And found it in thy cheek; he can afford

That to his subject lends not some small glory; No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, That you are you, so dignifies his story,

But he that writes of you, if he can tell
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

Let him but copy what in you is writ,
O how I faint when I of you do write,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counter-part shall fame his wit, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

Making his style admired every where. And in the praise thereof spends all his might,

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises
But since your worth (wide, as the ocean is,)
The humble as the prondest sail doth bear,

My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.

My tongne-tied muse in manners holds her still,
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Whilst he upon your soundoess deep doth ride; Reserve their character with golden quill,
Or, being wreck’d, I am a worthless boat, And precious plırase by all the muses filed.

doth grow.


I think good thoughts, whilst others. write good And haply of our old acquaintance tell. words,

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate, And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry Amer

For I'must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. To every hymn that able spirit affords,

XC. In polish'd from of well-refined pen.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Hearing you praised, I say, 'tis so, 'tis true,

Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, And to the most of praise add something more;

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hind-most, holds his rank And do not drop in for an after-loss:

Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this before.

sorrow, Then others for the breath of words respect,

Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

To linger out a purposed overthrow,
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you, When other petty griefs have done their spite,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inherse, But in the onset come; so shall I taste
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? At first the very worst of Fortune's might;

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Above a mortal pitch, that strcuk me dead? Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so. No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

XCI. Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Some in their wealth, some in their body's force; Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, As victors, of my silence cannot boast;

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their I was not sick of any fear from thence.

horse; But when your countenance fill'd up his line,

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Then lack'd I matter; that en feebled mine.

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest :

But these particulars are not my measure,
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, All these I better in one general best.
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: Thy love is better than high birth to me,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
My bonds in thee are all determinate.

Of more delight than hawks or horses be; For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? Aud having thee, of all men's pride I boast. And for that riches where is my deserving ? Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, All this away, and me most wretched make. And so my patent back again is swerving.

XCII. Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking; And life no longer than thy love will stay,

For term of life thou art assured mine;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.

For it depends upon that love of thine.

Then needs not to fear the worst of wrongs, Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,

When in the least of them my life hath end. In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter.

I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,

O what a happy title do I find,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art for- Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's so blessed fair that fears no blot? With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not: Upon thy part I can set down a story

XCIII. of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted;

So shall I live, supposing thon art true, That thou, in losing me, shall win much glory;

Like a deceived husband: so love's face And I by this will be a gainer too ;

May still seem love to me, though alter'd new; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: The injuries that to myself I do,

For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Doing the vantage, double-vantage me. Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

In many looks the false heart's history That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange; LXXXIX.

But heaven in thy creation did decree, Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; And I will comment upon that offence;

Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's working be, Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt; Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness

tell. Against thy reasons making no defence.

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
To set a form upon desired change,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,

XCIT. I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; They that have power to hart and will do none,

Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue That do not do the thing they mos: do show, Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell; Who, moving others, are themselves, as stone, Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;


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