Look, whom she best endowed she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty cherish;

She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls are silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;—
Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou amongst the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;

(11.)

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence,
Save breed, to brave him when he takes the hence.

O, that you were yourself! but Love, you are
No longer yours, than you yourself here live
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease,
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear:
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day,
And barren rage of Death's eternal cold?

(12.)

O none but unthrifts! Dear, my Love, you know
You had a Father; let your Son say so.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality :

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

(13.)

THE TRUE WAY TO WAR WITH TIME.

'Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or say with Princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in Heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars,-in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

If from thyself to store thou would'st convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

Thy end is Truth's and Beauty's doom and date.

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,
Cheeréd and check'd 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.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours!

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

Much liker than your painted counterfeit :
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this time's Pencil, or my pupil Pen,'

(14.)

(15.)

115

1 This line has never yet been read, nor could it be whilst printed as heretofore:

'Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen.'

It was impossible to see what this meant. What Shakspeare says is, that the best painter, the master-pencil of the time, or his own pen of a learner,

Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men:

To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

(16.)

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts!
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this Poet lies,

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces: '
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,

Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue :
And your true rights be termed a Poet's rage,
And stretchéd metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it, and in my rhyme.

(17.)

will alike fail to draw the Earl's lines of life as he himself can do it, by his ' own sweet skill.' This pencil of the time may have been Mirevelt's; he painted the Earl's portrait in early manhood.

PERSONAL SONNETS.

1592-3.

SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, IN PRAISE OF HIS PERSONAL BEAUTY.

In the next two groups of Sonnets there are two ideas which touch in one or more places. These are the praise of his friend's beauty and the promise of immortality. Yet, they are wrought out with a sufficient distinctness to warrant my keeping them apart. I group them according to their unity of feeling rather than follow their numbers, for the confusion has now commenced which runs all through the remainder of the Sonnets. The subject of this present gathering is the Earl's beauty of person, which the Poet pourtrays with a moralising touch. Manly comeliness was of greater account with the Poets in Shakspeare's time than it is in ours. We consider such taste too feminine. Our Poet thought his friend's graces of person worthy of commendation. He searches amongst old paintings and the ancient chronicles to see if pen or picture has expressed such an image of youth and beauty. He looks at his own elder face in the glass, and tries to paint it with his friend's boy-bloom, and thinks it very gracious when seen beneath the crown of his friend's affection. He points out what is the loftiest beauty. But Shakspeare may have had another motive for singing of the Earl's personal good looks. It is noticeable that

the Poet's urgency on the score of his friend's marriage ceases with the first seventeen sonnets. So that it is reasonable to suppose Southampton had met and fallen in love with the fair Mistress Vernon,' and that he being desirous of marrying her, there was no further call for Shakspeare's advice on the subject. This being so, the sonnets in praise of the Earl would sooner or later be written with a consciousness that they would come under the eyes of Elizabeth Vernon, and the Poet's laudation be likewise for her ears, his portrait of the Earl coloured for her eyes! Not for himself alone nor for the Earl merely did he utter all the praise of his friend's beauty of person and constancy in love, but for another interested and loving listener. These sonnets I have supposed the Poet to send with a sort of dedicatory strain in which he congratulates himself on having so dear a friend.

DEDICATORY.

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom Fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked-for joy in that I honour most:
Great Princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marygold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die:
The painful warrior famouséd for worth'
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour raséd forth,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:

Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

(25.)

1 The Quarto reads 'famoused for worth,' which only needs the rhyme of 'forth' to make out both sense and sound. Why 'worth' should have been changed for 'fight' by Theobald, it is difficult to perceive. The Poet never could have written famoused for fight.' Steevens says: 'the stanza is not worth the labour that has been bestowed on it,' but as commentators