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1864. Zec. 19
Menit d

Riverside, Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton.



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How can I then return in happy plight......
How can my muse want subject to invent........
How careful was I when I took my way.........
How heavy do I journey on the way.
How like a winter hath my absence been..
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st...
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame..

I grant thou wert not married to my muse.......
I never saw that you did painting need.......
If my dear love were but the child of state..
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought.
If there be nothing new, but that, which is..
If thou survive my well contented day..
If thy soul check thee that I come so near.
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes..
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn..
In the old age black was not counted fair..
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye......
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open..

Let me confess that we two must be twain....
Let me not to the marriage of true minds.
Let not my love be call'd idolatry..
Let those who are in favour with their stars..
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore..
Like as, to make our appetites more keen....
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch..
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light..
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest..
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage....
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate..
Love is too young to know what conscience is..

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My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun...
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still..

No longer mourn for me when I am dead...
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done.....
No Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change..

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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck....
Not marble, not the gilded monuments...
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul........

O, call not me to justify the wrong...

O, for my sake do you with fortune chide..

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might..
O, how I faint when I of you do write...

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem.

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing.

O, lest the world should task you to recite...

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head.
O, never say that I was false of heart.....

O that you were yourself! but, love, you are............

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power..

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends..

Or I shall live your epitaph to make..

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you..

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth.......

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault...
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day................
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye...

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea..
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind..
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key..
So are you to my thoughts, as food to life..
So is it not with me as with that muse..
So now I have confess'd that he is thine..
So oft have I invok'd thee for my muse..
So shall I live, supposing thou art true..
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill..
Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness..
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said....

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all..
That God forbid, that made me first your slave..
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect.
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief...
That time of year thou may'st in me behold..
That you were once unkind, befriends me now.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame...
The forward violet thus did I chide......
The glass will show thee how thy beauties wear..
The little love-god lying once asleep...
The other two, slight air and purging fire..

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Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now..
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface..
They that have power to hurt and will do none........
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me..
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame.....
Those lines that I before have writ, do lie....
Those lips that Love's own hand did make.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view......
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits.....
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art....
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes..
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence...
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn..
bosom is endeared with all hearts...

Thy glosare Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain..

are the glass

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry.
"Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemed...
To me, fair friend, you never can be old...
Two loves I have of comfort and despair...

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend..


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse..
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed..
Were it aught to me I bore the canopy...
What's in the brain that ink may character..
What is your substance, whereof are you made..
What potions have I drunk of Syren tears..
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow.........
When I consider everything that grows..
When I do count the clock that tells the time..
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd..
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes...
When in the chronicle of wasted time....

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see.
When my love swears that she is made of truth..
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light..
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought..
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid.
Who is it that says most? which can say more..
Who will believe my verse in time to come..
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride..

Your love and pity doth the impression fill..

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