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XXIV `
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Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, `
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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 pictur'd lies, `
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Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, `
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That hath his windows glazed 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, where-through 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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XXV `
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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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Unlook'd 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 buried, `
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For at a frown they in their glory die. `
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The painful warrior famoused for fight, `
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After a thousand victories once foil'd, `
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Is from the book of honour razed quite, `
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And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: `
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Then happy I, that love and am belov'd, `
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Where I may not remove nor be remov'd. `
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XXVI `
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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 tatter'd 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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XXVII `
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Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, `
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The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd; `
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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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XXVIII `
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How can I then return in happy plight, `
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That am debarre'd the benefit of rest? `
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When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, `
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But day by night and night by day oppress'd, `
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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 dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: `
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So flatter I the swart-complexion'd 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, `
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And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. `
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XXIX `
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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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Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, `
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Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, `
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With what I most enjoy contented least; `
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Yet in these thoughts my self 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 remember'd such wealth brings `
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That then I scorn to change my state with kings. `
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XXX `
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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 cancell'd woe, `
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And moan the expense of many a vanish'd 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-bemoaned 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, `
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All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. `
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XXXI `
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Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, `
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Which I by lacking have supposed dead; `
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And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, `
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And all those friends which I thought buried. `
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How many a holy and obsequious tear `
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Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, `
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As interest of the dead, which now appear `
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But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie! `
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Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, `
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Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, `
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Who all their parts of me to thee did give, `
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That due of many now is thine alone: `
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Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, `
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And thou--all they--hast all the all of me. `
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XXXII `
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If thou survive my well-contented day, `
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When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover `
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And shalt by fortune once more re-survey `
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These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, `
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Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, `
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And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, `
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Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, `
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Exceeded by the height of happier men. `
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O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: `
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'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, `
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A dearer birth than this his love had brought, `
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To march in ranks of better equipage: `
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But since he died and poets better prove, `
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Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'. `
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XXXIII `
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Full many a glorious morning have I seen `
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Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, `
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Kissing with golden face the meadows green, `
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Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; `
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Anon permit the basest clouds to ride `
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With ugly rack on his celestial face, `
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And from the forlorn world his visage hide, `
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Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: `
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Even so my sun one early morn did shine, `
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With all triumphant splendour on my brow; `
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But out! alack! he was but one hour mine, `
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The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. `
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Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; `
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Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. `
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XXXIV `
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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, `
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And make me travel forth without my cloak, `
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To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, `
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Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? `
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'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, `
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To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, `
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For no man well of such a salve can speak, `
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That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: `
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Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; `
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Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: `
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The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief `
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To him that bears the strong offence's cross. `
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Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, `
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And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. `
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XXXV `
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No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done: `
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: `
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Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, `
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And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. `
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All men make faults, and even I in this, `
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Authorizing thy trespass with compare, `
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Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, `
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Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; `
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For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,-- `
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Thy adverse party is thy advocate,-- `
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And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: `
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