| 91 |
| Some glory in their birth, some in their
skill, |
| Some in their wealth, some in their
body's force, |
| Some in their garments (though
new-fangled ill), |
| Some in their hawks and hounds, some in
their horse, |
| And every humour hath his adjunct
pleasure |
| Wherein it finds a joy above the rest. |
| But these particulars are not my measure
; |
| All these I better in one general best. |
| Thy love is better than high birth to me, |
| Richer than wealth, prouder than
garments' cost, |
| Of more delight than hawks or horses be, |
| And having thee of all men's pride I
boast, |
| Wretched in this alone :
that thou mayst take |
| All this away, and me most
wretched make.
|
| 92 |
| But do thy worst to steal thyself away, |
| For term of life thou art assurèd mine, |
| And life no longer than thy love will
stay, |
| For it depends upon that love of thine. |
| Then need I not to fear the worst of
wrongs |
| When in the least of them my life hath
end. |
| I see a better state to me belongs |
| Than that which on thy humour doth
depend. |
| Thou canst not vex me with inconstant
mind, |
| Since that my life on they revolt doth
lie. |
| O, what a happy title do I find - |
| Happy to have thy love, happy to die ! |
| But what's so blessèd fair
that fears no blot ? |
| Thou mayst be false, and yet
I know it not.
|
| 93 |
| So shall I live supposing thou art true |
| Like a deceivèd husband ; so love's face |
| May still seem love to me, though altered
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's 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 !
|
| 94 |
| They that have power to hurt and will do
none, |
| That do not do the thing they most do
show, |
| Who moving others are themselves as
stone, |
| Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow - |
| They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, |
| And husband nature's riches from expense
; |
| They are the lords and owners of their
faces, |
| Others but stewards of their excellence. |
| The summer's flower is to the summer
sweet |
| Though to itself it only live and die, |
| But if that flower with base infection
meet |
| The basest weed outbraves his dignity ; |
| For sweetest things turn
sourest by their deeds : |
| Lilies that fester smell far
worse than weeds.
|
| 95 |
| How sweet and lovely dost thou make the
shame |
| Which, like a canker in the fragrant
rose, |
| Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name
! |
| O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins
enclose ! |
| That tongue that tells the story of thy
days, |
| Making lascivious comments on thy sport, |
| Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of
praise, |
| Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. |
| O, what a mansion have those vices got |
| Which for their habitation chose out
thee, |
| Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot |
| And all things turns to fair that eyes
can see ! |
| Take heed, dear heart, of
this large privilege : |
| The hardest knife ill used doth lose his
edge.
|
| 96 |
| Some say thy fault is youth, some
wantonness ; |
| Some say thy grace is youth and gentle
sport. |
| Both grace and faults are loved of more
and less ; |
| Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee
resort. |
| As on the finger of a thronèd queen |
| The basest jewel will be well esteemed, |
| So are those errors that in thee are seen |
| To truths translated and for true things
deemed. |
| How many lambs might the stern wolf
betray |
| If like a lamb he could his looks
translate ! |
| How many gazers mightst thou lead away |
| If thou wouldst use the strength of all
thy state ! |
| But do not so : I love thee
in such sort |
| As, thou being mine, mine is
thy good report.
|
| 97 |
| How like a winter hath my absence been |
| From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting
year ! |
| What freezings have I felt, what dark
days seen, |
| What old December's bareness everywhere ! |
| And yet this time removed was summer's
time, |
| The teeming autumn big with rich
increase, |
| Bearing the wanton burden of the prime |
| Like widowed wombs after their lord's
decease. |
| Yet this abundant issue seemed to me |
| But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit, |
| For summer and his pleasures wait on
thee, |
| And thou away, the very birds are mute ; |
| Or if they sing, 'tis with
so dull a cheer |
| That leaves look pale,
dreading the winter's near.
|
| 98 |
| From you have I been absent in the spring |
| When proud-pied April, dressed in all his
trim, |
| Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, |
| That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with
him. |
| Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet
smell |
| Of different flowers in odour and in hue |
| Could make me any summer's story tell, |
| Or from their proud lap pluck them where
they grew ; |
| Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, |
| Nor praise the deep vermilion in the
rose. |
| They were but sweet, but figures of
delight |
| Drawn after you, you pattern of all those
; |
| Yet seemed it winter still,
and, you away, |
| As with your shadow I with
these did play.
|
| 99 |
| The forward violet thus did I chide : |
| Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy
sweet that smells, |
| If not from my love's breath ? The purple
pride |
| Which on thy soft cheek for complexion
dwells |
| In my love's veins thou hast too grossly
dyed. |
| The lily I condemnèd for thy hand, |
| And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair
; |
| The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, |
| One blushing shame, another white despair
; |
| A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of
both, |
| And to his robb'ry had annexed thy breath
; |
| But for his theft in pride of all his
growth |
| A vengeful canker ate him up to death. |
| More flowers I noted, yet I
none could see |
| But sweet or colour it had
stol'n from thee.
|
| 100 |
| Where art thou, muse, that thou forget'st
so long |
| To speak of that which gives thee all thy
might ? |
| Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless
song, |
| Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects
light ? |
| Return, forgetful muse, and straight
redeem |
| In gentle numbers time so idly spent ; |
| Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem |
| And gives thy pen both skill and
argument. |
| Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face
survey |
| If time have any wrinkle graven there. |
| If any, be a satire to decay |
| And make time's spoils despisèd
everywhere. |
| Give my love fame faster
than time wastes life ; |
So, thou prevene'st his
scythe and crookèd knife.
|
|
William
Shakespeare | Classic
Poems |
|
|
|
Ariel's Songs |
