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Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, `
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And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: `
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So, either by thy picture or my love, `
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Thy self away, art present still with me; `
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For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, `
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And I am still with them, and they with thee; `
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Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight `
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Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight. `
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XLVIII `
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How careful was I when I took my way, `
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Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, `
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That to my use it might unused stay `
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From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! `
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But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, `
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Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, `
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Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, `
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Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. `
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Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, `
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Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, `
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Within the gentle closure of my breast, `
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From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; `
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And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear, `
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For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. `
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XLIX `
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Against that time, if ever that time come, `
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When I shall see thee frown on my defects, `
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When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, `
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Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects; `
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Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, `
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And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, `
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When love, converted from the thing it was, `
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Shall reasons find of settled gravity; `
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Against that time do I ensconce me here, `
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Within the knowledge of mine own desert, `
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And this my hand, against my self uprear, `
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To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: `
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To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, `
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Since why to love I can allege no cause. `
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How heavy do I journey on the way, `
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When what I seek, my weary travel's end, `
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Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, `
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'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!' `
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The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, `
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Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, `
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As if by some instinct the wretch did know `
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His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee: `
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The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, `
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That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, `
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Which heavily he answers with a groan, `
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More sharp to me than spurring to his side; `
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For that same groan doth put this in my mind, `
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My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. `
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LI `
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Thus can my love excuse the slow offence `
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Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: `
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From where thou art why should I haste me thence? `
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Till I return, of posting is no need. `
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O! what excuse will my poor beast then find, `
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When swift extremity can seem but slow? `
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Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, `
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In winged speed n:motion shall I know, `
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Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; `
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Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, `
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Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race; `
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But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,-- `
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'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, `
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Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.' `
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LII `
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So am I as the rich, whose blessed key, `
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Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, `
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The which he will not every hour survey, `
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For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. `
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Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, `
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Since, seldom coming in that long year set, `
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Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, `
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Or captain jewels in the carcanet. `
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So is the time that keeps you as my chest, `
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Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, `
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To make some special instant special-blest, `
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By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. `
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Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, `
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Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope. `
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LIII `
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What is your substance, whereof are you made, `
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That millions of strange shadows on you tend? `
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Since every one, hath every one, one shade, `
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And you but one, can every shadow lend. `
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Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit `
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Is poorly imitated after you; `
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On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, `
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And you in Grecian tires are painted new: `
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Speak of the spring, and foison of the year, `
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The one doth shadow of your beauty show, `
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The other as your bounty doth appear; `
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And you in every blessed shape we know. `
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In all external grace you have some part, `
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But you like none, none you, for constant heart. `
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LIV `
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O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem `
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By that sweet ornament which truth doth give. `
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The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem `
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For that sweet odour, which doth in it live. `
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The canker blooms have full as deep a dye `
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As the perfumed tincture of the roses. `
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Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly `
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When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: `
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But, for their virtue only is their show, `
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They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; `
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Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; `
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Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: `
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And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, `
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When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. `
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LV `
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Not marble, nor the gilded monuments `
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Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; `
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But you shall shine more bright in these contents `
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Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. `
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When wasteful war shall statues overturn, `
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And broils root out the work of masonry, `
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Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn `
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The living record of your memory. `
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'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity `
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Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room `
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Even in the eyes of all posterity `
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That wear this world out to the ending doom. `
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So, till the judgment that yourself arise, `
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You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. `
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LVI `
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Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said `
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Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, `
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Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, `
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To-morrow sharpened in his former might: `
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So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill `
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Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, `
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To-morrow see again, and do not kill `
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The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness. `
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Let this sad interim like the ocean be `
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Which parts the shore, where two contracted new `
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Come daily to the banks, that when they see `
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Return of love, more blest may be the view; `
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Or call it winter, which being full of care, `
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Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. `
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LVII `
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Being your slave what should I do but tend, `
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Upon the hours, and times of your desire? `
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I have no precious time at all to spend; `
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Nor services to do, till you require. `
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Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, `
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Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, `
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Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, `
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When you have bid your servant once adieu; `
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Nor dare I question with my jealous thought `
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Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, `
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But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought `
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Save, where you are, how happy you make those. `
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So true a fool is love, that in your will, `
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Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. `
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LVIII `
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That god forbid, that made me first your slave, `
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I should in thought control your times of pleasure, `
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Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, `
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Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! `
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O! let me suffer, being at your beck, `
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The imprison'd absence of your liberty; `
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And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, `
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Without accusing you of injury. `
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Be where you list, your charter is so strong `
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That you yourself may privilage your time `
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To what you will; to you it doth belong `
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Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. `
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I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, `
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Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. `
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LIX `
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If there be nothing new, but that which is `
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Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, `
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Which labouring for invention bear amiss `
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