Reading Help THE SONNETS
LXXI `
` `
` No longer mourn for me when I am dead `
` Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell `
` Give warning to the world that I am fled `
` From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: `
` Nay, if you read this line, remember not `
` The hand that writ it, for I love you so, `
` That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, `
` If thinking on me then should make you woe. `
` O! if,--I say you look upon this verse, `
` When I perhaps compounded am with clay, `
` Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; `
` But let your love even with my life decay; `
` Lest the wise world should look into your moan, `
` And mock you with me after I am gone. `
` `
` LXXII `
` `
` O! lest the world should task you to recite `
` What merit lived in me, that you should love `
` After my death,--dear love, forget me quite, `
` For you in me can nothing worthy prove; `
` Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, `
` To do more for me than mine own desert, `
` And hang more praise upon deceased I `
` Than niggard truth would willingly impart: `
` O! lest your true love may seem false in this `
` That you for love speak well of me untrue, `
` My name be buried where my body is, `
` And live no more to shame nor me nor you. `
` For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, `
` And so should you, to love things nothing worth. `
` `
` LXXIII `
` `
` That time of year thou mayst in me behold `
` When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang `
` Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, `
` Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. `
` In me thou see'st the twilight of such day `
` As after sunset fadeth in the west; `
` Which by and by black night doth take away, `
` Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. `
` In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, `
` That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, `
` As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, `
` Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. `
` This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, `
` To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. `
` `
` LXXIV `
` `
` But be contented: when that fell arrest `
` Without all bail shall carry me away, `
` My life hath in this line some interest, `
` Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. `
` When thou reviewest this, thou dost review `
` The very part was consecrate to thee: `
` The earth can have but earth, which is his due; `
` My spirit is thine, the better part of me: `
` So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, `
` The prey of worms, my body being dead; `
` The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, `
` Too base of thee to be remembered,. `
` The worth of that is that which it contains, `
` And that is this, and this with thee remains. `
` `
` LXXV `
` `
` So are you to my thoughts as food to life, `
` Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; `
` And for the peace of you I hold such strife `
` As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. `
` Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon `
` Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; `
` Now counting best to be with you alone, `
` Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: `
` Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, `
` And by and by clean starved for a look; `
` Possessing or pursuing no delight, `
` Save what is had, or must from you be took. `
` Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, `
` Or gluttoning on all, or all away. `
` `
` LXXVI `
` `
` Why is my verse so barren of new pride, `
` So far from variation or quick change? `
` Why with the time do I not glance aside `
` To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? `
` Why write I still all one, ever the same, `
` And keep invention in a noted weed, `
` That every word doth almost tell my name, `
` Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? `
` O! know sweet love I always write of you, `
` And you and love are still my argument; `
` So all my best is dressing old words new, `
` Spending again what is already spent: `
` For as the sun is daily new and old, `
` So is my love still telling what is told. `
` `
` LXXVII `
` `
` Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, `
` Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; `
` These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, `
` And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. `
` The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show `
` Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; `
` Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know `
` Time's thievish progress to eternity. `
` Look! what thy memory cannot contain, `
` Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find `
` Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, `
` To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. `
` These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, `
` Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. `
` `
` LXXVIII `
` `
` So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, `
` And found such fair assistance in my verse `
` As every alien pen hath got my use `
` And under thee their poesy disperse. `
` Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing `
` And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, `
` Have added feathers to the learned's wing `
` And given grace a double majesty. `
` Yet be most proud of that which I compile, `
` Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: `
` In others' works thou dost but mend the style, `
` And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; `
` But thou art all my art, and dost advance `
` As high as learning, my rude ignorance. `
` `
` LXXIX `
` `
` Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, `
` My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; `
` But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, `
` And my sick Muse doth give an other place. `
` I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument `
` Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; `
` Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent `
` He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. `
` He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word `
` From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, `
` And found it in thy cheek: he can afford `
` No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. `
` Then thank him not for that which he doth say, `
` Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. `
` `
` LXXX `
` `
` O! how I faint when I of you do write, `
` Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, `
` And in the praise thereof spends all his might, `
` To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame! `
` But since your worth--wide as the ocean is,-- `
` The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, `
` My saucy bark, inferior far to his, `
` On your broad main doth wilfully appear. `
` Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, `
` Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; `
` Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, `
` He of tall building, and of goodly pride: `
` Then if he thrive and I be cast away, `
` The worst was this,--my love was my decay. `
` `
` LXXXI `
` `
` Or I shall live your epitaph to make, `
` Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; `
` From hence your memory death cannot take, `
` Although in me each part will be forgotten. `
` Your name from hence immortal life shall have, `
` Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: `
` The earth can yield me but a common grave, `
` When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. `
` Your monument shall be my gentle verse, `
` Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; `
` And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, `
` When all the breathers of this world are dead; `
` You still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,-- `
` Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. `
` `
` LXXXII `
` `
` I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, `
` And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook `
` The dedicated words which writers use `
` Of their fair subject, blessing every book. `
` Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, `
` Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; `
` And therefore art enforced to seek anew `
` Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. `
` And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd, `
` What strained touches rhetoric can lend, `
` Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd `
` In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; `
`
` `
` No longer mourn for me when I am dead `
` Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell `
` Give warning to the world that I am fled `
` From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: `
` Nay, if you read this line, remember not `
` The hand that writ it, for I love you so, `
` That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, `
` If thinking on me then should make you woe. `
` O! if,--I say you look upon this verse, `
` When I perhaps compounded am with clay, `
` Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; `
` But let your love even with my life decay; `
` Lest the wise world should look into your moan, `
` And mock you with me after I am gone. `
` `
` LXXII `
` `
` O! lest the world should task you to recite `
` What merit lived in me, that you should love `
` After my death,--dear love, forget me quite, `
` For you in me can nothing worthy prove; `
` Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, `
` To do more for me than mine own desert, `
` And hang more praise upon deceased I `
` Than niggard truth would willingly impart: `
` O! lest your true love may seem false in this `
` That you for love speak well of me untrue, `
` My name be buried where my body is, `
` And live no more to shame nor me nor you. `
` For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, `
` And so should you, to love things nothing worth. `
` `
` LXXIII `
` `
` That time of year thou mayst in me behold `
` When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang `
` Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, `
` Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. `
` In me thou see'st the twilight of such day `
` As after sunset fadeth in the west; `
` Which by and by black night doth take away, `
` Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. `
` In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, `
` That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, `
` As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, `
` Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. `
` This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, `
` To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. `
` `
` LXXIV `
` `
` But be contented: when that fell arrest `
` Without all bail shall carry me away, `
` My life hath in this line some interest, `
` Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. `
` When thou reviewest this, thou dost review `
` The very part was consecrate to thee: `
` The earth can have but earth, which is his due; `
` My spirit is thine, the better part of me: `
` So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, `
` The prey of worms, my body being dead; `
` The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, `
` Too base of thee to be remembered,. `
` The worth of that is that which it contains, `
` And that is this, and this with thee remains. `
` `
` LXXV `
` `
` So are you to my thoughts as food to life, `
` Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; `
` And for the peace of you I hold such strife `
` As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. `
` Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon `
` Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; `
` Now counting best to be with you alone, `
` Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: `
` Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, `
` And by and by clean starved for a look; `
` Possessing or pursuing no delight, `
` Save what is had, or must from you be took. `
` Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, `
` Or gluttoning on all, or all away. `
` `
` LXXVI `
` `
` Why is my verse so barren of new pride, `
` So far from variation or quick change? `
` Why with the time do I not glance aside `
` To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? `
` Why write I still all one, ever the same, `
` And keep invention in a noted weed, `
` That every word doth almost tell my name, `
` Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? `
` O! know sweet love I always write of you, `
` And you and love are still my argument; `
` So all my best is dressing old words new, `
` Spending again what is already spent: `
` For as the sun is daily new and old, `
` So is my love still telling what is told. `
` `
` LXXVII `
` `
` Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, `
` Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; `
` These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, `
` And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. `
` The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show `
` Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; `
` Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know `
` Time's thievish progress to eternity. `
` Look! what thy memory cannot contain, `
` Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find `
` Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, `
` To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. `
` These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, `
` Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. `
` `
` LXXVIII `
` `
` So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, `
` And found such fair assistance in my verse `
` As every alien pen hath got my use `
` And under thee their poesy disperse. `
` Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing `
` And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, `
` Have added feathers to the learned's wing `
` And given grace a double majesty. `
` Yet be most proud of that which I compile, `
` Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: `
` In others' works thou dost but mend the style, `
` And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; `
` But thou art all my art, and dost advance `
` As high as learning, my rude ignorance. `
` `
` LXXIX `
` `
` Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, `
` My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; `
` But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, `
` And my sick Muse doth give an other place. `
` I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument `
` Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; `
` Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent `
` He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. `
` He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word `
` From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, `
` And found it in thy cheek: he can afford `
` No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. `
` Then thank him not for that which he doth say, `
` Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. `
` `
` LXXX `
` `
` O! how I faint when I of you do write, `
` Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, `
` And in the praise thereof spends all his might, `
` To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame! `
` But since your worth--wide as the ocean is,-- `
` The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, `
` My saucy bark, inferior far to his, `
` On your broad main doth wilfully appear. `
` Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, `
` Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; `
` Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, `
` He of tall building, and of goodly pride: `
` Then if he thrive and I be cast away, `
` The worst was this,--my love was my decay. `
` `
` LXXXI `
` `
` Or I shall live your epitaph to make, `
` Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; `
` From hence your memory death cannot take, `
` Although in me each part will be forgotten. `
` Your name from hence immortal life shall have, `
` Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: `
` The earth can yield me but a common grave, `
` When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. `
` Your monument shall be my gentle verse, `
` Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; `
` And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, `
` When all the breathers of this world are dead; `
` You still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,-- `
` Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. `
` `
` LXXXII `
` `
` I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, `
` And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook `
` The dedicated words which writers use `
` Of their fair subject, blessing every book. `
` Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, `
` Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; `
` And therefore art enforced to seek anew `
` Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. `
` And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd, `
` What strained touches rhetoric can lend, `
` Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd `
` In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; `
`