| 51 |
| 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 me
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 wingèd speed no motion shall I know. |
| Then can no horse with my desire keep
pace ; |
| Therefore desire, of perfect's love being
made, |
| Shall rein 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'll run and give him leave
to go.
|
| 52 |
| So am I as the rich whose blessèd key |
| Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd
treasure, |
| The which he will not ev'ry hour survey, |
| For blunting the fine point of seldom
pleasure, |
| Therefore are feasts so solemn and so
rare |
| Since, seldom coming, in the long year
set |
| Like stones of worth they thinly placèd
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 imprisoned price. |
| Blessèd are you whose worthiness give
scope, |
| Being had, to triumph ; being lacked, to
hope.
|
| 53 |
| What is your substance, whereof are you
made, |
| That millions of strange shadows on you
tend ? |
| Since every one hath, every one, one
shade, |
| And you, but one, can every shadow lend. |
| Described 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 foison of the
year ; |
| That one doth shadow of your beauty show, |
| The other as your bounty doth appear ; |
| And you in every blessèd shape we know. |
| In all external grace you have some part, |
| But you like none, none you, for constant
heart.
|
| 54 |
| 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 perfumèd tincture of the roses, |
| Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly |
| When summer's breath their maskèd buds
discloses ; |
| But for their virtue only is their show |
| They live unwooed 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, by verse distils
your truth.
|
| 55 |
| 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 besmeared 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 or your memory. |
| 'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity |
| Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall
still find room |
| Even in the eyes of all posterity |
| That wear this world out to the ending
doom. |
| So, till the judgement that yourself
arise, |
| You live in this, and dwell in lovers'
eyes.
|
| 56 |
| Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not
said |
| Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, |
| Which but today by feeding is allayed, |
| Tomorrow sharpened in his former might. |
| So, love, be thou ; although today thou
fill |
| Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with
fullness, |
| Tomorrow see again, and do not kill |
| The spirit of love with a perpetual
dullness. |
| Let this sad int'rim 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 blessed may be the
view ; |
| Or call it winter, which, being full of
care, |
| Makes summer's welcome, thrice more
wished, more rare.
|
| 57 |
| 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
naught |
| Save, where you are, how happy you make
those. |
| So true a fool is love that in your will, |
| Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
|
| 58 |
| That god forbid, that made me first your
slave, |
| I should in thought control your times of
pleasure, |
| Or at your hand th' account of hours to
crave, |
| Being your vassal bound to stay your
leisure. |
| O let me suffer, being at your beck, |
| Th'imprisoned absence of your liberty, |
| And patience, tame to sufferance, bide
each check, |
| Without accusing you of injury. |
| Be where you list, your charter is to
strong |
| That you yourself may privilege your time |
| To that 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.
|
| 59 |
| 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 at first in character was
done, |
| That I might see what the old world could
say |
| To this composèd wonder of your frame ; |
| Whether we are mended or whe'er better
they, |
| O whether revolution be the same. |
| O, sure I am the wits of former days |
| To subjects worse have given admiring
praise.
|
| 60 |
| 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
crowned |
| Crookèd 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.
|
|
William
Shakespeare | Classic
Poems |
|
|
|
Ariel's Songs |
