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21 |
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So is it not with me as with that muse |
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Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, |
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Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, |
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And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, |
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Making a couplement of proud compare |
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With sun and moon, with earth, and sea's rich gems, |
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With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare |
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That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. |
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O let me, true in love, but truly write, |
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And then believe me my love is as fair |
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As any mother's child, though not so bright |
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As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air; |
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Let them say more that like of hearsay well ; |
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I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
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22 |
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My glass shall not persuade me I am old |
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So long as youth and thou are of one date; |
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But when in thee time's furrows I behold, |
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Then look I death my days should expiate. |
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For all that beauty that doth cover thee |
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Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, |
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Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; |
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How can I then be elder than thou art? |
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O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary |
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As I, not for myself, but for thee will, |
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Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary |
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As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. |
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Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain : |
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Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
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23 |
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As an unperfect actor on the stage |
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Who with his fear is put besides his part, |
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Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage |
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Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart, |
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So I, for fear of trust, forget to say |
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The perfect ceremony of love's rite, |
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And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, |
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O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. |
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O let my books be then the eloquence |
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And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, |
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Who plead for love, and look for recompense |
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More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. |
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O learn to read what silent love hath writ; |
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To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
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24 |
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Mine eye hath played the painter, and hath steeled |
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Thy beauty's form in table of my heart. |
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My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, |
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And perspective it is best painter's art; |
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For through the painter must you see his skill |
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To find where your true image pictured lies, |
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Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, |
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That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes. |
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Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done : |
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Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me |
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Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun |
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Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee. |
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Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art : |
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They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
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25 |
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Let those who are in favour with their stars |
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Of public honour and proud titles boast, |
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Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, |
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Unlooked-for joy in that I honour most. |
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Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread |
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But as the marigold at the sun's eye, |
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And in themselves their pride lies burièd, |
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For at a frown they in their glory die. |
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The painful warrior famousèd for might, |
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After a thousand victories once foiled |
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Is from the book of honour razèd quite, |
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And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. |
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Then happy I, that love and am beloved |
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Where I may not remove nor be removed.
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26 |
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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage |
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Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, |
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To thee I send this written embassage |
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To witness duty, not to show my wit; |
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Duty so great which wit so poor as mine |
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May make seem bare in wanting words to show it, |
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But that I hope some good conceit of thine |
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In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it, |
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Till whatsoever star that guides my moving |
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Points on me graciously with fair aspect, |
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And puts apparel on my tattered loving |
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To show me worthy of thy sweet respect. |
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Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; |
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Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove
me.
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27 |
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Weary with toil I haste me to my bed, |
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The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; |
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But then begins a journey in my head |
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To work my mind when body's work's expired; |
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For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, |
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Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, |
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And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, |
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Looking on darkness which the blind do see : |
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Save that my soul's imaginary sight |
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Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, |
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Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night |
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Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. |
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Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, |
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For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
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28 |
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How can I then return in happy plight, |
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That am debarred the benefit of rest, |
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When day's oppression is not eased by night, |
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But day by night and night by day oppressed, |
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And each, though enemies to either's reign, |
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Do in consent shake hands to torture me, |
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The one by toil, the other to complain |
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How far I toil, still farther off from thee ? |
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I tell the day to please him thou art bright, |
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And do'st him grace when clouds do blot the heaven ; |
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So flatter I the swart-complexioned night |
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When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. |
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But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, |
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
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29 |
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When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, |
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I all alone beweep my outcast state, |
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And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, |
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And look upon myself and curse my fate, |
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Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, |
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Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, |
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Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, |
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With what I most enjoy contended least : |
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Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, |
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Haply I think on thee, and then my state, |
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Like to the lark at break of day arising |
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From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; |
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For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings |
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That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.
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30 |
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought |
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I summon up remembrance of things past, |
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I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, |
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And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. |
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Then can I drown an eye unused to flow |
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For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, |
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And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, |
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And moan th'expense of man a vanished sight. |
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Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, |
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And heavily from woe to woe tell o-er |
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The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, |
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Which I new pay as if not paid before. |
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But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, |
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
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William Shakespeare |
Classic
Poems |
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Ariel's Songs |
