Reading Help THE SONNETS
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; `
` When I behold the violet past prime, `
` And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; `
` When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, `
` Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, `
` And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, `
` Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, `
` Then of thy beauty do I question make, `
` That thou among the wastes of time must go, `
` Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake `
` And die as fast as they see others grow; `
` And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence `
` Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. `
` `
` XIII `
` `
` O! that you were your self; but, love you are `
` No longer yours, than you your self here live: `
` Against this coming end you should prepare, `
` And your sweet semblance to some other give: `
` So should that beauty which you hold in lease `
` Find no determination; then you were `
` Yourself again, after yourself's decease, `
` When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. `
` Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, `
` Which husbandry in honour might uphold, `
` Against the stormy gusts of winter's day `
` And barren rage of death's eternal cold? `
` O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know, `
` You had a father: let your son say so. `
` `
` XIV `
` `
` Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; `
` And yet methinks I have astronomy, `
` But not to tell of good or evil luck, `
` Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; `
` Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, `
` Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, `
` Or say with princes if it shall go well `
` By oft predict that I in heaven find: `
` But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, `
` And constant stars in them I read such art `
` As 'Truth and beauty shall together thrive, `
` If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert'; `
` Or else of thee this I prognosticate: `
` 'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.' `
` `
` XV `
` `
` When I consider every thing that grows `
` Holds in perfection but a little moment, `
` That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows `
` Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; `
` When I perceive that men as plants increase, `
` Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, `
` Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, `
` And wear their brave state out of memory; `
` Then the conceit of this inconstant stay `
` Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, `
` Where wasteful Time debateth with decay `
` To change your day of youth to sullied night, `
` And all in war with Time for love of you, `
` As he takes from you, I engraft you new. `
` `
` XVI `
` `
` But wherefore do not you a mightier way `
` Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? `
` And fortify your self in your decay `
` With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? `
` Now stand you on the top of happy hours, `
` And many maiden gardens, yet unset, `
` With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, `
` Much liker than your painted counterfeit: `
` So should the lines of life that life repair, `
` Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, `
` Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, `
` Can make you live your self in eyes of men. `
` To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, `
` And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. `
` `
` XVII `
` `
` Who will believe my verse in time to come, `
` If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? `
` Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb `
` Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. `
` If I could write the beauty of your eyes, `
` And in fresh numbers number all your graces, `
` The age to come would say 'This poet lies; `
` Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' `
` So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, `
` Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, `
` And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage `
` And stretched metre of an antique song: `
` But were some child of yours alive that time, `
` You should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme. `
` `
` XVIII `
` `
` Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? `
` Thou art more lovely and more temperate: `
` Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, `
` And summer's lease hath all too short a date: `
` Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, `
` And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, `
` And every fair from fair sometime declines, `
` By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: `
` But thy eternal summer shall not fade, `
` Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, `
` Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, `
` When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, `
` So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, `
` So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. `
` `
` XIX `
` `
` Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, `
` And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; `
` Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, `
` And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; `
` Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, `
` And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, `
` To the wide world and all her fading sweets; `
` But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: `
` O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, `
` Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; `
` Him in thy course untainted do allow `
` For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. `
` Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, `
` My love shall in my verse ever live young. `
` `
` XX `
` `
` A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, `
` Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; `
` A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted `
` With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: `
` An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, `
` Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; `
` A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling, `
` Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. `
` And for a woman wert thou first created; `
` Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, `
` And by addition me of thee defeated, `
` By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. `
` But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, `
` Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. `
` `
` XXI `
` `
` So is it not with me as with that Muse, `
` Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, `
` Who heaven itself for ornament doth use `
` And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, `
` Making a couplement of proud compare' `
` With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, `
` With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, `
` That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. `
` O! let me, true in love, but truly write, `
` And then believe me, my love is as fair `
` As any mother's child, though not so bright `
` As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: `
` Let them say more that like of hearsay well; `
` I will not praise that purpose not to sell. `
` `
` XXII `
` `
` My glass shall not persuade me I am old, `
` So long as youth and thou are of one date; `
` But when in thee time's furrows I behold, `
` Then look I death my days should expiate. `
` For all that beauty that doth cover thee, `
` Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, `
` Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: `
` How can I then be elder than thou art? `
` O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary `
` As I, not for myself, but for thee will; `
` Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary `
` As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. `
` Presume not on th;heart when mine is slain, `
` Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. `
` `
` XXIII `
` `
` As an unperfect actor on the stage, `
` Who with his fear is put beside his part, `
` Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, `
` Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; `
` So I, for fear of trust, forget to say `
` The perfect ceremony of love's rite, `
` And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, `
` O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. `
` O! let my looks be then the eloquence `
` And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, `
` Who plead for love, and look for recompense, `
` More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. `
` O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: `
` To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. `
` `
`
` When I behold the violet past prime, `
` And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; `
` When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, `
` Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, `
` And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, `
` Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, `
` Then of thy beauty do I question make, `
` That thou among the wastes of time must go, `
` Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake `
` And die as fast as they see others grow; `
` And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence `
` Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. `
` `
` XIII `
` `
` O! that you were your self; but, love you are `
` No longer yours, than you your self here live: `
` Against this coming end you should prepare, `
` And your sweet semblance to some other give: `
` So should that beauty which you hold in lease `
` Find no determination; then you were `
` Yourself again, after yourself's decease, `
` When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. `
` Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, `
` Which husbandry in honour might uphold, `
` Against the stormy gusts of winter's day `
` And barren rage of death's eternal cold? `
` O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know, `
` You had a father: let your son say so. `
` `
` XIV `
` `
` Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; `
` And yet methinks I have astronomy, `
` But not to tell of good or evil luck, `
` Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; `
` Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, `
` Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, `
` Or say with princes if it shall go well `
` By oft predict that I in heaven find: `
` But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, `
` And constant stars in them I read such art `
` As 'Truth and beauty shall together thrive, `
` If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert'; `
` Or else of thee this I prognosticate: `
` 'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.' `
` `
` XV `
` `
` When I consider every thing that grows `
` Holds in perfection but a little moment, `
` That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows `
` Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; `
` When I perceive that men as plants increase, `
` Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, `
` Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, `
` And wear their brave state out of memory; `
` Then the conceit of this inconstant stay `
` Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, `
` Where wasteful Time debateth with decay `
` To change your day of youth to sullied night, `
` And all in war with Time for love of you, `
` As he takes from you, I engraft you new. `
` `
` XVI `
` `
` But wherefore do not you a mightier way `
` Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? `
` And fortify your self in your decay `
` With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? `
` Now stand you on the top of happy hours, `
` And many maiden gardens, yet unset, `
` With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, `
` Much liker than your painted counterfeit: `
` So should the lines of life that life repair, `
` Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, `
` Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, `
` Can make you live your self in eyes of men. `
` To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, `
` And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. `
` `
` XVII `
` `
` Who will believe my verse in time to come, `
` If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? `
` Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb `
` Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. `
` If I could write the beauty of your eyes, `
` And in fresh numbers number all your graces, `
` The age to come would say 'This poet lies; `
` Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' `
` So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, `
` Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, `
` And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage `
` And stretched metre of an antique song: `
` But were some child of yours alive that time, `
` You should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme. `
` `
` XVIII `
` `
` Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? `
` Thou art more lovely and more temperate: `
` Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, `
` And summer's lease hath all too short a date: `
` Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, `
` And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, `
` And every fair from fair sometime declines, `
` By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: `
` But thy eternal summer shall not fade, `
` Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, `
` Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, `
` When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, `
` So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, `
` So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. `
` `
` XIX `
` `
` Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, `
` And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; `
` Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, `
` And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; `
` Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, `
` And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, `
` To the wide world and all her fading sweets; `
` But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: `
` O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, `
` Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; `
` Him in thy course untainted do allow `
` For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. `
` Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, `
` My love shall in my verse ever live young. `
` `
` XX `
` `
` A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, `
` Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; `
` A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted `
` With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: `
` An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, `
` Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; `
` A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling, `
` Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. `
` And for a woman wert thou first created; `
` Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, `
` And by addition me of thee defeated, `
` By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. `
` But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, `
` Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. `
` `
` XXI `
` `
` So is it not with me as with that Muse, `
` Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, `
` Who heaven itself for ornament doth use `
` And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, `
` Making a couplement of proud compare' `
` With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, `
` With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, `
` That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. `
` O! let me, true in love, but truly write, `
` And then believe me, my love is as fair `
` As any mother's child, though not so bright `
` As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: `
` Let them say more that like of hearsay well; `
` I will not praise that purpose not to sell. `
` `
` XXII `
` `
` My glass shall not persuade me I am old, `
` So long as youth and thou are of one date; `
` But when in thee time's furrows I behold, `
` Then look I death my days should expiate. `
` For all that beauty that doth cover thee, `
` Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, `
` Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: `
` How can I then be elder than thou art? `
` O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary `
` As I, not for myself, but for thee will; `
` Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary `
` As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. `
` Presume not on th;heart when mine is slain, `
` Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. `
` `
` XXIII `
` `
` As an unperfect actor on the stage, `
` Who with his fear is put beside his part, `
` Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, `
` Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; `
` So I, for fear of trust, forget to say `
` The perfect ceremony of love's rite, `
` And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, `
` O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. `
` O! let my looks be then the eloquence `
` And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, `
` Who plead for love, and look for recompense, `
` More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. `
` O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: `
` To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. `
` `
`