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SONNET LX. Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said, Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,

So do our minutes basten to their end; Which but to day by feeding is allay'd,

Each changing place with that which goes before, To morrow sharpen’d in his former might:

In sequeut toil all forwards do contend. So, love, be thou; although to day thou fill Nativity once in the main of light, Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, To morrow see again, and do not kill

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness. And time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Let this sad interim like the ocean be

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Come daily to the banks, that, when they see Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, Return of love, more bless'd may be the view: And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. Or call it winter, which being full of care, (rare. And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

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, watched 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 nonght,
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.

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 tenour 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.

That God forbid, that made me first your slave,

Son of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure, And for this sin there is no remedy,

And all my soul, and all my every part ;
Or at your band the account of hours to crave,

It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure !
Oh, let me suffer (being at your beck)

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,

No shape so true, no truth of such account,
Th' imprison'd absence of your liberty,
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check And for myself mine own worth do define,
Without accusing you of injury.

As I all other in all worths surmount.

But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Be where you list; your charter is so strong,

'Bated and chopp'd with tan'd antiquity, That you yourself may privilege your time :

Mine own self-love quite contrary I read, Do what you will, to you it doth belong

Self so self-loving were iniquity. Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

'T is thee (myself) that for myself I praise, J am to wait, though waiting so be Hell; Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

If there be nothing new, but that, which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguild,
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 at 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 bave given admiring praise.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious band crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have draind his blood, and fill'd his bros
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelld 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 then still green.

WHEN I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich proud cost of out-worn bury'd age ;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd,
And brass eternal slave to mortal ragé;
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.

Taus is his cheek the map of days outworti,
When beauty liv'd 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,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
Io 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.


SONNET LXIX. SINCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: Hor with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Whose action is po stronger than a flower? Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. O how shall Summer's honey breath hold out Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; Against the wreckful siege of battering days, But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, When rocks impregnable are not so stont,

In other accents do this praise confound, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ? By seeing further than the eye hath shown. O fearful meditation! where, alack !

They look into the beauty of thy mind, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; Or what strong hand can hold bis swift foot back? | Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ?

were kind, O none, unless this miracle have might,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds : That in black ink my love may still shine bright. But why thy olour matcheth not thy show,

The solve is this,-that thou dost common grow.

Tta'd with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trim'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:
Tird with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ;
The omament of beauty is suspect,
A 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 charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe.

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Ag! wherefore with infectiou 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 be live now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively reins?
Por she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
0, him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall bear the surly sullen bell'
Give warning to the world that I am Aed
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ,
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 even 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 liv'd 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,
T'han 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 sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument ;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent :
For as the Sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.


SONNET LXXVII. That time of year thou may'st in me behold

The glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, When yellow leaves, or pone, or few, do hang Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. And of this book this learning may'st thou taste. In me thou seest the twilight of such day,

The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, As after sun-set fadeth in the west,

Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Which by and by black night doth take away, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may'st know Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. Time's thievish, progress to eteroity. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

Look, what thy memory cannot contain, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Those children purs'd, deliver'd from thy brain, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

To take a new acquaintance of thy mind, This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more These offices, so soft as thou wilt look, strong,

Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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 reviewest 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 this is, and this with thee remains.

So oft bave I invok'd thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I coinpile,
Whose infuence is thine, and born of thee.
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.


So are you to my thoughts, as food to life, Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

And my sick Muse doth give another place.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Now counting best to be with you alone,

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight, He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
And by and by clean starved for a look ;

From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
Possessing or pursuing no delight,

And found it in thy cheek; he can afford Save what is had or must from you be took. No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Then thank him not for that which he doth say, @r glattoning on all, or all away.

Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

O how I faiat when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-ty'd, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth (wide, as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst be upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat, .
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
The worst was this;—my love was my decay.

Who is it that says most? which can say more,
Than this rich praise,-that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies h's story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your bounteons blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises



SONNET LXXXV. Os I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; My tongue-tyd Muse in manners holds her still, From hence your memory death cannot take, While comments of your praise, richly compild, Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Reserve their character with golden quill, Your name from hence immortal life shall hare, And precious phrase by all the Muses fild. Though I, once gone, to all the world must die. I think good thoughts, while others write good words, The earth can yield me but a common grave,

And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry Amen
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. To every hymn that able spirit affords,
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

In polish'a form of well-refined pen.
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; Hearing you prais'd, I say, 't is so, 't is true,
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,

And to the most of praise add something more; When all the breathers of this world are dead;

But that is in my thought, whose love to you, You still sball live (such virtue hath my pen).

Though words come hind-most, holds his rank before. Where breath most breathes,-even in the mouths Then others for the breath of words respect, of men.

Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

I GRANT thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore may'st without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ;
And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thon truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd
In trae plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance filld up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

I NEVER saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set.
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
Por I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
Their lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyselfthou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter.


SONNET XCII. When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, But do thy worst to steal thyself away, And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

For term of life thou art assured mine;
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,

And life no longer than thy love will stay,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. For it depends upon that love of thine.
With mine owo weakness being best acquainted, Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
Upon thy part I can set down a story

When in the least of them my life hath end.
of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted; I see a better state to me belongs
That thou, in losing me, shall win much glory: Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
And I by this will be a gainer too;

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. The injuries that to myself I do,

O what a happy title do I find, Doing thee vautage, double-vantage me.

Happy to have thy love, happy to die ! Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not:

SAY that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I 'll myself disgrace : knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ;
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell;
Lest 1 (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And hap!y of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many looks the false heart's history
Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
But Heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!


SONNET XCIV. Then hate me wheu thou wilt; if ever, now; They that bave power to hurt and will do none, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, That do not do the thing they most do show, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, And do not drop in for an after-loss:

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow; Ah ! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow, They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;

And husband Nature's riches from expense ; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

They are the lords and owners of their faces, To linger out a purpos'd overthrow,

Others but stewards of their excellence. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, When other petty griefs have done their spite, Though to itself it only live and die; But in the onset come; so sball I taste

But if that flower with base infection meet, At first the very worst of Fortune's might;

The basest weed out-braves his dignity : And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.


SONNET XCV. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Some in their wealth, some in their body's force; Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name? Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; 0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, That tongue that tells the story of thy days, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;

Making lascivious comments on thy sport, But these particulars are not my measure, Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise; All these I better in one general best.

Naming thy name blesses an ill report. Thy love is better than high birth to me,

O what a mansion have those vices got, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, Which for their habitation chose out thee ! Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see! Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; All this away, and me most wretched make. The bardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

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