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From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth| brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:

I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
And moan the expence of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removed, that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hang with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me,


If thou survive my well-contented day,

The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love

And they are rich, and ransome all ill deeds,

No more be grieved at that which thou hast

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud,

All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorising thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
(Thy adverse party is thy advocate)
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be

To that sweet thief, which sourly robs from me.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.

In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which, though it alter not love's sole effect,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.


And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bettering of the time;
And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought! Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and
poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love,


Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy,
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

E'en so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,

The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now;
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun


Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'er-take me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame:
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,

Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

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,, 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!


How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my


Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

Oh 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

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O how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own, when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give

That due to thee, which thou deservest alone.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth de-

And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them

all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thon may'st true love call; All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; And yet love knows, it is a greater grief

To bear love's wrongs, than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shews, Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes. XLI.

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art.

Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd?
Ah me! but yet thou might'st, my sweet, for-

And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there,
Where thou art forced to break a two-fold

Her's, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.


That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly.

Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her;

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,

And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery!-then she loves but me alone.

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


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, Wheu 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. XLIV.

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.


The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
There present-absent with swift motion slide.

For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,

My life, being inade of four, with two alone,
Siuks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured

By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who c'en but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.


Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.

My heart doth plead, that thou in him dost lie,
(A closet never pierced with crystal eyes)
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To 'cide this title is impannelled

A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined

The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part:
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right thine inward love of heart:

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart: Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away art present still with me; For thou not farther than my thoughts canst


And I am still with them, and they with thee; Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.


How careful was I, when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That, to my use, it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust. But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast,

From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part;

And even thence thou wilt be stolen I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

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
Call'd to that audit by advised respects,
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely

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 1 ensconce me here Within the knowledge of my 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 alledge no cause.


How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek,- my weary travel's end,Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend. The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan,

More, sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind, My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. LI.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste thence?

Till I return, of posting is no need.


O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;

In winged speed no motion shall I know;

Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; Therefore desire, of perfect love being made, Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race;

But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade; Since from thee going he went wilful slow, Towards thee I will run, and give him leave to go.


So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Şince seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

So is the time that keeps you, as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe, which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being. had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
Aud 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 foizon 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.

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses :
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. LV.

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, besmear'd 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

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Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might;

So, love, be thou; although to day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, e'en till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.

Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new Come daily to the banks, that, when they see

Return of love, more bless'd may be the view: Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd,

more rare.


Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world without-end hour, Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, Save, where you are, how happy you make those: So true a fool is love, that in your will (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill. LVIII.

That God forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!

Oh let me suffer (being at your beck) The imprison'd absence of your liberty, And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list; your charter is so strong, That you yourself may privilege your time: Do what you will, to you it doth belong

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait though waiting so be hell; Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that, which is, Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which labouring for invention bear amiss The second burden of a former child?

O that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind as first in character was done!

That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O! sure I am, the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring praise.


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 crown'd, 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


Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?

Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry;
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

O no! thy love, though much, is not so great;
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,

To play the watchman ever for thy sake:

For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,

From me far off, with others all-too-near.


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.

Methinks no face so gracious as is mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.

But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,

Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn: When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his


With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;

For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.


When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of out-worn buried age; And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate

That time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless


But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, -
As, to behold desert, a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd 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, doctorlike, controlling skill,
And simple truth, mis-call'd 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.


Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And proud of many, lives upon his gains,
O, him she stores, to shew what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.

Thus is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were borne,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,
E'er beauty's dead fleece made another gay;
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another's green,

Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To show false art what beauty was of yore.

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;

But let your love e'en with my life decay:
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:

O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,

And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am 'shamed by that which I bring forth,
And to should you, to love things nothing worth.

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sun-set fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
thou perceivest, which makes thy love more



Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of heart can mend:
All tongues, (the voice of souls) gave thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, e'en so as foes commend.
Thine outward thus with outward praise is To


But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds:
Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes
were kind,

To thy fair flowers add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this,-that thou dost common grow.

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
The crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd, or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:


love that well which thou must leave ere



But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou receivest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate 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 conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.


So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as sweet season'd 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 better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometimes, 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.

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