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11 |
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As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st |
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In one of thine from that which thou departest, |
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And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st |
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Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. |
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Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; |
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Without this, folly, age, and cold decay. |
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If all were minded so, the times should cease, |
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And threescore year would make the world away. |
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Let those whom nature hath not made for store, |
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Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish. |
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Look whom she best endowed she gave the more, |
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Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish. |
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She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby |
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
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12
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When I do count the clock that tells the time, |
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And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; |
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When I behold the violet past prime, |
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And sable curls ensilvered o'er with white ; |
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When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, |
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Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, |
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And summer's green all girded up in sheaves/td>
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Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard : |
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Then of they beauty do I question make |
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That thou among the wastes of time must go, |
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Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, |
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And die as fast as they see others grow ; |
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And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence |
Save breed to brave him when he takes thee hence.
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13 |
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O that you were yourself ! But, love, you are |
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No longer yours than you yourself here live. |
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Against this coming end you should prepare, |
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And your sweet semblance to some other give |
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So should that beauty which you hold in lease |
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Find no determination ; then you were |
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Yourself again after your self's decease, |
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When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. |
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Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, |
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Which husbandry in honour might uphold |
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Against the stormy gusts of winter's day, |
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And barren rage of death's eternal cold? |
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O, none but unthrifts, dear my love, you know. |
You had a father; let your son say so.
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14 |
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Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, |
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And yet methinks I have astronomy ; |
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But not to tell of good or evil luck, |
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Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality. |
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Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, |
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'Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind, |
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Or say with princes if it shall go well |
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By oft predict that I in heaven find ; |
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But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, |
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And, constant stars, in them I read such art |
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As truth and beauty shall together thrive |
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If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert. |
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Or else of thee this I prognosticate : |
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
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15 |
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When I consider every thing that grows |
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Holds in perfection but a little moment, |
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That this huge stage presenteth naught but shows |
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Whereon the stars in secret influence comment ; |
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When I perceive that men as plants increase, |
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Cheerèd and checked even by the selfsame sky ; |
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Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, |
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And wear their brave state out of memory : |
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Then the conceit of this inconstant stay |
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Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, |
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Where wasteful time debateth with decay |
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To change your day of youth to sullied night ; |
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And all in war with time for love of you, |
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
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16 |
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But wherefore do not you a mightier way |
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Make war upon this bloody tyrant, time, |
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And fortify yourself in your decay |
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With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme ? |
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, |
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And many maiden gardens yet unset |
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With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, |
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Much liker than your painted counterfeit. |
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So should the lines of life that life repair |
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Which this time's pencil or my pupil pen |
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Neither in inward worth nor outward fair |
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Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. |
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To give away yourself keeps yourself still, |
And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
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17 |
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Who will believe my verse in time to come |
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If it were filled with your most high deserts ?- |
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Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb |
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Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. |
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes |
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And in fresh numbers number all your graces, |
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The age to come would say 'This poet lies ; |
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Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.' |
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So should my papers, yellowed with their age, |
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Be scorned, like old men of less truth then tongue, |
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And your true rights be termed a poet's rage |
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And stretchèd ,metre of an antique song. |
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But were some child of yours alive that time, |
You should live twice : in it, and in my rhyme.
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18 |
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? |
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Thou art more lovely and more temperate. |
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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, |
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And summer's lease hath all too short a date. |
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Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, |
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And often is his gold complexion dimmed, |
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And every fair from fair sometimes declines, |
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By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed ; |
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But thy eternal summer shall not fade |
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Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, |
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Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade |
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When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. |
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So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, |
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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19 |
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Devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws, |
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And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ; |
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Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, |
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And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood. |
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Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, |
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And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time, |
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To the wide world and all her fading sweets. |
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But I forbid thee one most heinous crime : |
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O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, |
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Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen. |
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Him in thy course untainted do allow |
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For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. |
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Yet do thy worst, old time ; despite thy wrong |
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
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20 |
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A woman's face with nature's own hand painted |
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Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ; |
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A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted |
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With shifting change as is false women's fashion ; |
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An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling |
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Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; |
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A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, |
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Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. |
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And for a woman wert thou first created, |
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Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting, |
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And by addition me of thee defeated |
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By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. |
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But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure, |
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
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William Shakespeare |
Classic
Poems |
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Ariel's Songs |
