Reading Help THE SONNETS
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. `
` `
` XCV `
` `
` 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-us'd doth lose his edge. `
` `
` XCVI `
` `
` Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; `
` Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; `
` Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: `
` Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. `
` As on the finger of a throned queen `
` The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, `
` So are those errors that in thee are seen `
` To truths translated, and for true things deem'd. `
` 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. `
` `
` XCVII `
` `
` 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 widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: `
` Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me `
` But hope of orphans, and unfather'd 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. `
` `
` XCVIII `
` `
` From you have I been absent in the spring, `
` When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, `
` Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, `
` That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd 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 seem'd it winter still, and you away, `
` As with your shadow I with these did play. `
` `
` XCIX `
` `
` 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 dy'd. `
` The lily I condemned 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 robbery had annex'd thy breath; `
` But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth `
` A vengeful canker eat him up to death. `
` More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, `
` But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. `
` `
` C `
` `
` 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, `
` Darkening 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 despised every where. `
` Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, `
` So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. `
` `
` CI `
` `
` O truant Muse what shall be thy amends `
` For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd? `
` Both truth and beauty on my love depends; `
` So dost thou too, and therein dignified. `
` Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say, `
` 'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd; `
` Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; `
` But best is best, if never intermix'd'? `
` Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? `
` Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee `
` To make him much outlive a gilded tomb `
` And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. `
` Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how `
` To make him seem long hence as he shows now. `
` `
` CII `
` `
` My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; `
` I love not less, though less the show appear; `
` That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, `
` The owner's tongue doth publish every where. `
` Our love was new, and then but in the spring, `
` When I was wont to greet it with my lays; `
` As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, `
` And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: `
` Not that the summer is less pleasant now `
` Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, `
` But that wild music burthens every bough, `
` And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. `
` Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: `
` Because I would not dull you with my song. `
` `
` CIII `
` `
` Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, `
` That having such a scope to show her pride, `
` The argument, all bare, is of more worth `
` Than when it hath my added praise beside! `
` O! blame me not, if I no more can write! `
` Look in your glass, and there appears a face `
` That over-goes my blunt invention quite, `
` Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. `
` Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, `
` To mar the subject that before was well? `
` For to no other pass my verses tend `
` Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; `
` And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, `
` Your own glass shows you when you look in it. `
` `
` CIV `
` `
` To me, fair friend, you never can be old, `
` For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, `
` Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold, `
` Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, `
` Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, `
` In process of the seasons have I seen, `
` Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, `
` Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. `
` Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, `
` Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; `
` So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, `
` Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: `
` For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: `
` Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. `
` `
` CV `
` `
` Let not my love be call'd idolatry, `
` Nor my beloved as an idol show, `
` Since all alike my songs and praises be `
` To one, of one, still such, and ever so. `
` Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, `
` Still constant in a wondrous excellence; `
` Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, `
` One thing expressing, leaves out difference. `
` 'Fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument, `
` 'Fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words; `
` And in this change is my invention spent, `
` Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. `
` Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, `
` Which three till now, never kept seat in one. `
` `
` CVI `
` `
` When in the chronicle of wasted time `
` I see descriptions of the fairest wights, `
` And beauty making beautiful old rime, `
`
` 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. `
` `
` XCV `
` `
` 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-us'd doth lose his edge. `
` `
` XCVI `
` `
` Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; `
` Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; `
` Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: `
` Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. `
` As on the finger of a throned queen `
` The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, `
` So are those errors that in thee are seen `
` To truths translated, and for true things deem'd. `
` 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. `
` `
` XCVII `
` `
` 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 widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: `
` Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me `
` But hope of orphans, and unfather'd 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. `
` `
` XCVIII `
` `
` From you have I been absent in the spring, `
` When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, `
` Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, `
` That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd 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 seem'd it winter still, and you away, `
` As with your shadow I with these did play. `
` `
` XCIX `
` `
` 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 dy'd. `
` The lily I condemned 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 robbery had annex'd thy breath; `
` But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth `
` A vengeful canker eat him up to death. `
` More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, `
` But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. `
` `
` C `
` `
` 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, `
` Darkening 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 despised every where. `
` Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, `
` So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. `
` `
` CI `
` `
` O truant Muse what shall be thy amends `
` For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd? `
` Both truth and beauty on my love depends; `
` So dost thou too, and therein dignified. `
` Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say, `
` 'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd; `
` Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; `
` But best is best, if never intermix'd'? `
` Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? `
` Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee `
` To make him much outlive a gilded tomb `
` And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. `
` Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how `
` To make him seem long hence as he shows now. `
` `
` CII `
` `
` My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; `
` I love not less, though less the show appear; `
` That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, `
` The owner's tongue doth publish every where. `
` Our love was new, and then but in the spring, `
` When I was wont to greet it with my lays; `
` As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, `
` And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: `
` Not that the summer is less pleasant now `
` Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, `
` But that wild music burthens every bough, `
` And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. `
` Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: `
` Because I would not dull you with my song. `
` `
` CIII `
` `
` Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, `
` That having such a scope to show her pride, `
` The argument, all bare, is of more worth `
` Than when it hath my added praise beside! `
` O! blame me not, if I no more can write! `
` Look in your glass, and there appears a face `
` That over-goes my blunt invention quite, `
` Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. `
` Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, `
` To mar the subject that before was well? `
` For to no other pass my verses tend `
` Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; `
` And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, `
` Your own glass shows you when you look in it. `
` `
` CIV `
` `
` To me, fair friend, you never can be old, `
` For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, `
` Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold, `
` Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, `
` Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, `
` In process of the seasons have I seen, `
` Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, `
` Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. `
` Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, `
` Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; `
` So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, `
` Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: `
` For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: `
` Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. `
` `
` CV `
` `
` Let not my love be call'd idolatry, `
` Nor my beloved as an idol show, `
` Since all alike my songs and praises be `
` To one, of one, still such, and ever so. `
` Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, `
` Still constant in a wondrous excellence; `
` Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, `
` One thing expressing, leaves out difference. `
` 'Fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument, `
` 'Fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words; `
` And in this change is my invention spent, `
` Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. `
` Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, `
` Which three till now, never kept seat in one. `
` `
` CVI `
` `
` When in the chronicle of wasted time `
` I see descriptions of the fairest wights, `
` And beauty making beautiful old rime, `
`