The Sonnets Read online

  And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.

  With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,

  Upon thy part I can set down a story

  Of faults concealʼd, wherein I am attainted;

  That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:

  And I by this will be a gainer too;

  For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,

  The injuries that to myself I do,

  Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.

  Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

  That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

  LXXXIX

  Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

  And I will comment upon that offence:

  Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

  Against thy reasons making no defence.

  Thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill,

  To set a form upon desired change,

  As Iʼll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,

  I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;

  Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue

  Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,

  Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,

  And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

  For thee, against my self Iʼll vow debate,

  For I must neʼer love him whom thou dost hate.

  XC

  Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

  Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,

  Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

  And do not drop in for an after-loss:

  Ah! do not, when my heart hath ʼscapʼd this sorrow,

  Come in the rearward of a conquerʼd woe;

  Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

  To linger out a purposʼd overthrow.

  If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

  When other petty griefs have done their spite,

  But in the onset come: so shall I taste

  At first the very worst of fortuneʼs might;

  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

  Comparʼd with loss of thee, will not seem so.

  XCI

  Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

  Some in their wealth, some in their bodyʼs force,

  Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;

  Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

  And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

  Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:

  But these particulars are not my measure,

  All these I better in one general best.

  Thy love is better than high birth to me,

  Richer than wealth, prouder than garmentsʼ costs,

  Of more delight than hawks and horses be;

  And having thee, of all menʼs pride I boast:

  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take

  All this away, and me most wretched make.

  XCII

  But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

  For term of life thou art assured mine;

  And life no longer than thy love will stay,

  For it depends upon that love of thine.

  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

  When in the least of them my life hath end.

  I see a better state to me belongs

  Than that which on thy humour doth depend:

  Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

  Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

  O! what a happy title do I find,

  Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

  But whatʼs so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

  XCIII

  So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

  Like a deceived husband; so loveʼs face

  May still seem love to me, though alterʼd new;

  Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:

  For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

  Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

  In manyʼs looks, the false heartʼs history

  Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.

  But heaven in thy creation did decree

  That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

  Whateʼer thy thoughts, or thy heartʼs workings be,

  Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.

  How like Eveʼs apple doth thy beauty grow,

  If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

  XCIV

  They that have power to hurt, and will do none,

  That do not do the thing they most do show,

  Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

  Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

  They rightly do inherit heavenʼs graces,

  And husband natureʼs riches from expense;

  They are the lords and owners of their faces,

  Others, but stewards of their excellence.

  The summerʼs 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 beautyʼs 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-usʼd 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 lovʼd of more and less:

  Thou makʼst faults graces that to thee resort.

  As on the finger of a throned queen

  The basest jewel will be well esteemʼd,

  So are those errors that in thee are seen

  To truths translated, and for true things deemʼd.

  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 Decemberʼs bareness everywhere!

  And yet this time removed was summerʼs time;

  The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

  Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

  Like widowʼd wombs after their lordsʼ decease:

  Yet this abundant issue seemʼd to me

  But hope of orphans, and unfatherʼd fruit;

  For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

  And, thou away, the very birds are mute:

  Or, if they sing, ʼtis with so dull a cheer,

  That leaves look pale, dreading the winterʼs near.

  XCVIII

  From you have I been absent in the spring,

  When proud-pied April, dressʼd in all his trim,
r />   Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

  That heavy Saturn laughʼd and leapʼd with him.

  Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

  Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

  Could make me any summerʼs story tell,

  Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:

  Nor did I wonder at the lilyʼs 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 seemʼd 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 loveʼs breath? The purple pride

  Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

  In my loveʼs veins thou hast too grossly dyʼd.

  The lily I condemned for thy hand,

  And buds of marjoram had stolʼn thy hair;

  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

  One blushing shame, another white despair;

  A third, nor red nor white, had stolʼn of both,

  And to his robbery had annexʼd 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 stolʼn from thee.

  C

  Where art thou Muse that thou forgetʼst so long,

  To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

  Spendʼst 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 loveʼs sweet face survey,

  If Time have any wrinkle graven there;

  If any, be a satire to decay,

  And make timeʼs spoils despised every where.

  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,

  So thou preventʼst his scythe and crooked knife.

  CI

  O truant Muse what shall be thy amends

  For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyʼd?

  Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

  So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

  Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,

  ʼTruth needs no colour, with his colour fixʼd;

  Beauty no pencil, beautyʼs truth to lay;

  But best is best, if never intermixʼdʼ?

  Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

  Excuse not silence so, forʼt lies in thee

  To make him much outlive a gilded tomb

  And to be praisʼd 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 strengthenʼd, though more weak in seeming;

  I love not less, though less the show appear;

  That love is merchandizʼd, whose rich esteeming,

  The ownerʼs 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 summerʼs 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 eyʼd,

  Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,

  Have from the forests shook three summersʼ pride,

  Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turnʼd,

  In process of the seasons have I seen,

  Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burnʼd,

  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 perceivʼd;

  So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

  Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceivʼd:

  For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:

  Ere you were born was beautyʼs summer dead.

  CV

  Let not my love be callʼd 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 confinʼd,

  One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

  ʼFair, kind, and true,ʼ is all my argument,

  ʼFair, kind, and true,ʼ 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 livʼd 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,

  In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

  Then, in the blazon of sweet beautyʼs best,

  Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

  I see their antique pen would have expressʼd

  Even such a beauty as you master now.

  So all their praises are but prophecies

  Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

  And for they looked but with divining eyes,

  They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

  For we, which now behold these present days,

  Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

  CVII

  Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

  Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

  Can yet the lease of my true love control,

  Supposed as forfeit to a confinʼd doom.

  The mortal moon hath her eclipse endurʼd,

  And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

  Incertainties now crown themselves assurʼd,

  And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

  Now with the drops of this most balmy time,

  My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

  Since, spite of him, Iʼll live in this poor rime,

  While he insults oʼer dull and speechless tribes:

  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

  When tyrantsʼ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

  CVI
II

  Whatʼs in the brain, that ink may character,

  Which hath not figurʼd to thee my true spirit?

  Whatʼs new to speak, what now to register,

  That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

  Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

  I must each day say oʼer the very same;

  Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

  Even as when first I hallowʼd thy fair name.

  So that eternal love in loveʼs fresh case,

  Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

  Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

  But makes antiquity for aye his page;

  Finding the first conceit of love there bred,

  Where time and outward form would show it dead.

  CIX

  O! never say that I was false of heart,

  Though absence seemʼd my flame to qualify,

  As easy might I from my self depart

  As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:

  That is my home of love: if I have rangʼd,

  Like him that travels, I return again;

  Just to the time, not with the time exchangʼd,

  So that myself bring water for my stain.

  Never believe though in my nature reignʼd,

  All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

  That it could so preposterously be stainʼd,

  To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

  For nothing this wide universe I call,

  Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

  CX

  Alas! ʼtis true, I have gone here and there,

  And made my self a motley to the view,

  Gorʼd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

  Made old offences of affections new;

  Most true it is, that I have lookʼd on truth